An Age Cannot Sate Love
by DancingDoula
Summary: Emma Jones travels back in time and meets Killian before he becomes Hook. Desperate to maintain the timeline, yet torn between a love for the same man in different times, Emma and KJ embark on a quest that will have Killian choosing between an easy guarantee and taking that leap of faith only possible with true love. Time travel, fairies, curses, monsters. CS AU.
1. A Pirate for Hire

**I do not own OUAT, I'm only borrowing. Sigh!**

**Background: Set 3 years after Pan and Gold are destroyed in Neverland (not Storybrooke), leaving our favorite gang free to return to Storybrooke without ever facing Pan's curse. **

**This is a story set in the past, present and future, a convoluted history of sorts, and even though it begins in Storybrooke, this is not a story about our favorite sleepy town. There will be an adventurous quest, and of course true love will hang in the balance. AU**

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An Age Cannot Sate Love

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Chapter 1: A Pirate for Hire

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_Our universe unfailingly adheres to laws at work in and around us. Much speculation surrounds the origin of these natural forces, although there is little proof to support any one claim. It usually boils down to belief. And belief is strong indeed, creating or destroying our own cosmos at will. _

_A miracle is said to occur when something happens contrary to the laws of nature. _

_Redemption occurs when something unequivocally wrong is made right._

_This story is about miracles. And redemption._

====o0I0o====

Three days ago.

Emma casually walked down Main Street on her way to the station. She planned on stopping into Granny's for a coffee and a quick word with Red about the girls' night out planned for Friday.

Emma's life had finally settled into a comfortable routine. Henry was sixteen now, and he shared his time among his three parents' households, never missing a beat, and loving his bizarre family dynamics. Her parents had just had a little boy, her brother Leopold—Leo for short—who was so tiny and yet yelled with the lungs of an opera singer.

And she was married, in a union she never thought she'd find herself, the biggest wonder being that she was happy, really happy for the first time in her life. Everything worked and it worked well. She had married Killian Jones over a year and half ago in an outdoor wedding ceremony on the beach. He worked part time as deputy at the station, where she was still Sheriff, and part time running charters on the Jolly Roger for people looking for a day-sail or an overnight fishing trip. They kept busy, but always made time for each other.

A secret smile played across her lips as she thought about her handsome husband, how just that morning he had woken her with his unending supply of passion, his adoration for her never ceasing to surprise her. She never tired of allowing her mind to linger on her pirate, and so as she walked down Main Street, images of Killian Jones fitted together in Emma's mind like the pieces of a much-loved patchwork quilt.

Those were her last thoughts before Emma disappeared.

====o0I0o====

Three days. Emma had hiked for three lonely, rotten days through what looked like the Enchanted Forest, although she couldn't be sure, since every time she asked about Mulan or Aurora or Robin Hood or Prince Philip, racking her brain for the names of anyone she could remember from her last time there, all she got in return were blank stares.

Thank God she had a history of stealing. She had managed to pilfer a cloak from the back of a cart parked on the outskirts of a small village, covering herself with it immediately since her jeans, tank and red leather jacket stood out noticeably from the attire of those she came across. She had been wearing her boots the day she fell through, lucky that at least her footwear didn't attract attention underneath the hem of the brown garment.

After three days of hardly any food except a couple of apples and a pastry she'd been able to swipe when the vendors were looking the other way, and even less sleep, Emma was done. She missed her husband, his smell, his arms, his companionship, everything about him. She missed Henry, his animated exuberance about life in general and the way he never failed to make her smile. She missed her crazy family and her brother who screamed all the time. She missed showers and beds and hot chocolate and modern conveniences. She was tired, crabby, and had no idea where she was or how she was going to get home.

Sometime around early evening, she finally stumbled into the first actual town she had seen, her boots echoing on the cobblestones of the main square. _Must be a port town_ she thought, listening to the squawking of seagulls and scrunching her nose at the smell of rotten fish.

The raucous sounds of a bustling tavern rang through the square, and Emma sat down on a bench outside, waiting for someone, anyone to emerge. She didn't have to wait long.

A rough looking man with brown homespun clothing shuffled out the door of the busy pub, looking back over his shoulder at someone inside, waving his hand in farewell. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that he was drunk and probably heading home for the night.

Knowing this was her chance, Emma sidled up to the wasted man. "Hey there, fella, lookin' for a good time?" She encircled his waist with her arm.

"Huh? Whu…what?" He looked confused, then inhaled sharply when he saw her face, obviously surprised that she would be hitting on him.

Emma found what she was looking for, and patted him gently on the back. "Hey man, maybe next time."

"Oh, alright then." He looked dejected, but as though he had expected it from her, and Emma felt sorry for the pathetic man, watching as he turned around and continued shuffling away.

She breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't wanted a fight, and that he had been carrying his coins in his pocket. Giving the coin purse a slight toss, she caught it and opened the door of the tavern, ready for a hot meal and a bed to lay her head. She'd look for a way home tomorrow.

The noise was deafening after three days of solitude, and Emma had to stop in the doorway for a moment to get her bearings. That's when it hit her, the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies wrinkling her nose. She remembered it from the last time she'd been in the Enchanted Forest, and she had to breathe out of her mouth so she wouldn't lose what little she still had in her stomach.

She ambled over to the bar stretching along the right hand wall, shouldering her way between two large men with their backs to each other. The rest of the joint was filled with crowded tables. There was a fireplace on the wall now behind her, although no fire had been lit—so many bodies clustered together kept the place almost uncomfortably hot.

"Hey!" she shouted over the din, trying to get the attention of the bartender by waving her hand at him.

He either ignored her or didn't hear her. She tried again to no avail. Frustrated, she turned around and faced the tables, leaning back against the counter. That was when she noticed one of the patrons steadily making his way over to her, his eyes trained on hers, a smirk on his face that left nothing to the imagination about what his intentions were. Emma rolled her eyes in disgust.

As soon as he was at her side, he asked, "Can I hep ye wit somthin', lil' lady?" He leered at her, baring his yellow crooked teeth, while his eyes raked the front of her body through her open cloak.

"Yeah, get the attention of the bar-man," she said with a straight face. She moved out of his way, allowing him access to the small piece of real estate she had carved out of the press of men.

He put his fingers between his teeth and whistled very loudly. Everyone in the near vicinity turned at the sound, all eyes alighting on her since she was one of very few women in an establishment filled with drunken men. She groaned in aggravation, sinking her shoulders and rolling her eyes again, averting her face to stare at some unidentified spill on the floor until everyone had lost interest.

The bartender came over and the man stepped back, allowing Emma her place back at the counter. "Thanks," she said over her shoulder.

"What can I do you for?" The bartender asked with a smile.

"I need a bowl of stew, a tankard of ale, and a bed for the night," she said tiredly.

He nodded once and left to get her food and drink.

Relieved, Emma stood for a minute, allowing her mind to clear, the cacophonous sounds drowning out all thought. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see the man who had helped her.

"So, don' I git some kind of a thank ye?" He stared at her mouth, his unwashed body stinking with his proximity.

"Yeah, I thought I already gave it." She waited for him to make his move.

"Well tha' don' seem like enuv thanks to me." His grip started to turn a little painful, and she seriously wondered if they were going to do this here, with people all around.

"Seriously, dude, take your hand off me." She picked up his wrist and threw it off her shoulder, turning back around to wait for her food.

He returned his hand to the same spot, leaned forward and whispered low in her ear, "Come now, tha's no way to treat a gen'leman."

He was persistent, she'd give him that. "Gentleman my ass." And with that, Emma hooked her ankle around the back of his knee, waiting as his body fell forward into hers. She bucked her head backward and caught him right in the nose, satisfied when she heard the crunch.

"You wench!" he shouted.

She whirled around fast, hand up to deflect the punch that was aimed at her face. She stopped his momentum with a well-aimed kick to his knee, causing him to buckle in pain. Balancing on his other leg, he made to punch her again, this time in her stomach, but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder, roughly pulling him away from her and tossing him to the ground, as the blood poured from his broken nose. The man scrabbled up and moved away as fast as his body would allow.

"Bad form to strike a lady."

Emma had been watching her attacker's hasty retreat, panting from the effort and the adrenaline. Her breath caught at the sound of his voice and Emma looked up wide-eyed into the face of Killian Jones.

"Oh, thank God!" She launched herself into his arms, hugging his neck tightly. "You came through too? Where are we?" She spoke quickly, her earlier anxiety and fatigue melting into relief.

.

.

Moments before, Killian had looked up from his rum to see a man he knew as Travis, a deckhand from one of the ships in port, pushing himself on the pretty blond Killian had been silently admiring since she'd come in the door all alone and with an obvious attitude. Travis was a brave man to chance a meeting with her. When he saw her throw Travis's hand from her shoulder, he knew he'd been right; she could take of herself. But when he had seen Travis's fist raise in retaliation, Killian had made his way over to the pair as quickly as possible. He didn't tolerate violence toward women.

He had easily thrust the lunging man to the floor, but he hadn't been prepared for her leap of faith into his arms, her soft body molding into his as her hands gripped the back of his collar and her face burrowed into the crook of his neck. Her hair smelled like leaves and twigs with an undercurrent of lavender, and he found himself responding to her embrace by comfortably linking his hands behind her back and resting his chin against her head, liking the way she felt in his arms.

She hugged him for a long minute, breathing him in as her pulse calmed.

Clearing his throat, he asked gently, "Do I know you, lass? Not that I'm complaining, mind you." He pulled back from her, curious about her identity, but surprisingly reluctant to break the embrace, the intimacy of her touch warming him more than his rum had.

She looked up into his tender blue eyes, swatting at his leather jacket. "Always teasing, pirate. Just hold me for a minute okay?"

He wasn't sure what to say to that, so he did.

Her soup arrived a minute later and she moved out of his arms as soon as she heard the bowl scrape the wood behind her. "I haven't eaten in three days. I'm starved. Have you had anything? Because I have some money if you need something."

He shook his head and she ate her stew quickly, taking a deep breath when she was done, stepping back from the counter with a contented sigh. She twisted back around to face him, and he lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, trying to decide what to make of her.

She smiled easily at him at first, and then her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and she tilted her head to the side in obvious confusion. "Killian? Why are you dressed like that?"

"Aye, lass, that's my name. Would you be so kind as to tell me yours?" Her eyes were traveling down his body and back up again, and he couldn't suppress the smirk that came so easily to his lips.

Her clear gaze met his blue one unflinchingly as some realization dawned on her. She looked away quickly, staring at the floor. "Damn it!" she said to herself.

"Come now, it can't be all that bad," he said conspiratorially. "You don't look like a Mildred or a Philomena or a Maren. I knew a Maren once, frightfully dull woman with a large mole just on the side of her…"

"What are you even talking about?" she demanded, looking up with a beautiful scowl scrunching her face and accentuating her impatience.

"Your name, still waiting." He smiled a toothy smile, greatly enjoying the byplay, and stroked his chin with his left hand, allowing his eyes to rake her form, lingering on her chest for a moment too long before meeting her steady gaze with a full-blown smirk.

Her eyes dropped to his hand, her mouth gaping slightly. Gathering it in hers, she turned it back and forth, inspecting his palm and scraping her fingers across his own like some sort of fortune-teller. She picked up his right hand and then compared the two of them. After she was satisfied, she gazed up at him sheepishly, as if suddenly aware of how peculiar she must look.

He couldn't help staring at her in disbelief. She was mad. A stunning lass, but a mad one nonetheless. Relapsing into his usual cocky attitude, he said, "See something you like?" and pulled his hands from hers, wishing he could take her to a quiet place, just the two of them, where he would literally charm the pants off her, mad or no.

He watched as she pulled herself together, the wheels turning in her lovely head. She ignored his comment and offered her right hand forthrightly. "Swan. Emma Swan."

He shook her hand in greeting. "Well, Swan. Emma Swan, it's been lovely meeting you. Now, if you'll excuse me…" He made to step away from her, knowing full well she wasn't going to let him go. He had used that move on the ladies so many times it hurt. If they thought he was walking away, they would suddenly become very willing to keep him there. He wasn't disappointed.

He felt her hand grip his arm. "Wait. Don't go. I need your help."

"Do you now?" he simpered, turning back around to meet her gaze, wondering what excuse she would have for detaining him.

"Yes. I-I'm from a different realm, and I need help getting back."

He knew she wasn't from around there, her clothing told him that much, but a different realm altogether? He hid his surprise at her response behind sarcasm, "Oh, is that all? Just a spot of realm jumping, eh?"

"Come on, Killian, I know you have a soft spot for damsels in distress. 'Good form' and all that." She smiled coyly, batting her eyelashes and tossing her hair over her shoulder in a phony invitation.

She was mocking him! Twice in the past five minutes she had managed to confound Killian Jones, and not much puzzled him about women anymore.

His eyes narrowed and his tone was sharper than he would have liked. "You hardly strike me as a damsel in distress, love. But you do realize that I'm a pirate. I don't answer to anyone except myself, and realm jumping is quite complicated, especially this time of year." He waved his hands around wide, mocking her in return.

Her face reddened in frustration. "God, why do you always have to make everything so difficult? Can't you just say, 'Aye, I'd be happy to help you, love.'?"

He chuckled at her vocal impression of him and said, "Well, Emma Swan, since you seem to know me so _intimately_, you must also realize that I only hire out for a price." He stepped closer to her, hoping to unsettle her a bit with his oppressive proximity.

Surprise followed by marked aggravation marched across her delicate features in tandem, and he smirked in response, impressed by her apparent gall at thinking she could persuade him with just her pretty face.

"I… I don't have anything I can offer you," she spoke incredulously and with a hint of defiance, her chin jutting out, challenging him to come up with something she would consider reasonable.

"That's not true." He raised an eyebrow and her lips formed a tight line; she wouldn't give him what his seductive expression suggested. He chuckled, enjoying her discomfort and picked up her left hand, looking at the thick gold band, a large emerald surrounded by diamonds resting comfortably on her finger.

"What? No, you can't have my wedding ring!" She snatched her hand back.

"Married, are you? Fascinating. Would have never guessed with the way you were _clinging_ to me only moments ago." The smirk never left his face and he realized he was back in control as he watched her face dissolve into fatigue.

Her tone however, still held some annoyance. "I so remember doing this with you, and I'm really not in the mood for all the games. So let's just cut to the chase. Will you help me or not?" The dark circles under her puffy eyes stood out in stark relief to her alabaster skin, catching the light as she turned away from him slightly to look about the room as she waited for his answer.

Determining that he was up for a little adventure, and intrigued by the gorgeous woman asserting so much fortitude even when she was obviously exhausted, he decided to humor her. "For the price of the bauble on your finger, I will help you, milady." He bowed to her, "Killian Jones at your service."

She waved her hands to get him to straighten his posture. "Finally." Her shoulders relaxed in consolation, having gained a sought after respite from the banter. "So, what's first?" She looked confused, a questioning frown settling on her face.

"First, you come and have a drink with me. Then, well, who knows?" He licked his lips indecently, and she grimaced like she wanted to punch the smirk off his face, although she was unable to keep a glint of humor from her eyes.

Killian Jones led her to his table, his steady hand on her back a clear indication to all in the tavern that he had claimed this lass for his own.

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**Review?**


	2. A Conversation Over Breakfast

An Age Cannot Sate Love

Chapter 2: A Conversation Over Breakfast

Emma stretched lazily, slowly opening her eyes to the quiet morning with a yawn. The dust motes danced in the rays of sunshine like ballerinas in the air, flitting from place to place following their own delicate choreography. She had fallen asleep the evening before almost as soon as her body had hit the straw-stuffed cot, only managing to pull off her boots and drag the ragged blanket up to her shoulders before she passed out, the din of the bar below having faded into nothingness in a matter of moments.

She yawned again, long and deep, amazed what a full night of sleep could do, and allowed her thoughts to shift to Killian. She had never expected to meet an earlier version of her husband, to have the chance to observe what he was like before he had been betrayed and spent three hundred years chasing revenge. He seemed carefree, lighter perhaps. He had fewer worry lines between his brows and his eyes didn't conceal so much pain like they had when she'd first met him. He looked good, happy instead of conflicted. In fact, his expression resembled her husband's for the past year or so. She smiled, pleased that she could bring that kind of joy into his life, even if it had taken three hundred years for him to find it. She ran her hands down her body, the same way he woke her most mornings, closing her eyes and imagining his own hands on her, longing for his touch. She couldn't wait to get back home to him, picturing how worried he must be; she wished she could send him a message that she was alright.

Her ruminations were suddenly interrupted by a stray thought flashing through her brain, grabbing her attention insistently like an alarm that refuses to turn off. _What if your being here alters history?_

Emma stilled completely, her heartbeat thudding in her ears as she considered this new possibility. It honestly hadn't crossed her mind that history might change, therefore affecting her life, her satisfied, easy life. She had finally found contentment, safety, the freedom to be and to feel without restraint or worry that she was going to be alone again. She had love, true love with the one person who knew her better than she knew herself. She couldn't conceive of a life without him now. She wouldn't.

And what about him? What if they never married? or worse yet, never met? How would that change his destiny? His revenge had finally released its hold on him, allowing him to find the happiness he so deserved—what would happen if that changed?

Emma's mind began spinning around and around as she tried to work the kink out of her present situation. She had hired him to help her get back home, which meant they'd be spending a lot of time together. How could she know what to tell him and what not to? How could she know what was off limits and what was okay? How could she maintain her distance from the one man she loved with everything she had in her heart, her mind, and her soul?

_What about Milah?_ Emma's stomach twisted in rebellion as she thought about Killian's first love. Killian had either already met her or hadn't yet, and he needed Milah as the catalyst to his revenge that would eventually bring him into contact with Emma. It was excruciating to picture him now, so lighthearted and easy, and to imagine the grim man he would become after he lost his hand and his heart, to know that she would have to gently encourage him down that dark path if he was ever to become hers.

Calming her anxious mind with a few deep breaths, Emma made a decision. She couldn't chance losing the happy ending they'd finally found, for both their sakes. She'd just have to carefully promote his relationship with the other woman, and try not to focus on how difficult that might prove to be.

She stretched again, the shaking in her limbs abating somewhat now that her mind was made up, as a loud rumbling in her stomach interrupted the quiet. She was hungry.

Sitting on the edge of the cot, she donned her boots and folded her cloak over her arm before leaving the room, greeted by the smell of fresh baked bread. Following her nose, Emma made her way downstairs with the intent of ordering breakfast before going to find Killian.

She was halfway to the counter of the near empty room when a man abruptly stood from a nearby table, turning to block her path and moving as though to press himself up against her body. Jumping back in revulsion, she put her hands up in front of her to push him away. The nasty man with yellow teeth from the night before sneered back at her, a single bandage wrapped around his head and covering his nose, the purple bruises peeking out from beneath the white cloth and radiating toward his eyes.

"Jes where do you think ye're goin', lil' lady?" He raised his chin, pushing out his chest against her palms in challenge.

Emma glanced around him to see that his two companions now had their eyes trained on her, ready to make a move if necessary. Crap. She was about to be jumped, and before breakfast for heaven's sake, which made her really angry after being half starved for three days.

She intended to give them one hell of a fight.

Dropping her cloak on another table, she said wearily, "To breakfast. Now, if you'll kindly let me pass." She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath to steady herself as she waited for him to make his move, all her muscles tense and ready for the attack.

"I don' think so. Ye're comin' with me." He pulled a small blade from the back of his belt, holding it upright and brandishing it back and forth in the light trying to scare her.

_Knife_. Recalling her self defense classes from when she was a bounty hunter, she knew that she should ignore the knife and watch the man's chest and eyes to see when and where he planned to move. Just like she expected, his eyes told her exactly what he was going to do.

He was going to grab her arm and twist her around so he could hold the knife to her neck and force her out the door. _Mistake_. Before he could clasp her arm, she quickly spread her arms out wide, skirting his own in the process, and hooked them around his neck, pulling his head down in one fluid motion onto her upraised knee, slamming his face into her bent leg. He shouted in agony as his nose came in contact with her hard muscle, the knife clattering to the floor.

She turned to run for the door, stopping short when his two companions blocked her path, which would give her attacker time to recover and approach her from behind. Now she would be surrounded. _Perfect_, she frowned.

She glanced around for a possible weapon, noticing a sturdy chair within arm's reach. Smiling seductively, she winked at the two oafish men in front of her and cocked a hand on her hip, causing them to shuffle back and forth on their feet in discomfort, obviously not relishing a scrape with the woman. She now knew that her attacker was the ring-leader of this unwilling bunch. Good fortune favored her.

She heard a table scrape out of the leader's way as he approached her back. "Tsk, tsk, lil' lady. Ye're gonna regrit ever messin' wit' me." His nasally voice sounded furious, but marked his position behind her.

Emma kept her body facing the two large men, quietly mumbling, "Is that so?"

Grabbing the chair to her left and grunting a little under the weight of it, she swung it hard at the men in front of her, who had plenty of time to move back out of the way. But the man behind her didn't anticipate that she was actually aiming for him, the side of the chair hitting him broadside in the jaw as she swung completely around, knocking him out as his head bounced off a table. He collapsed to the floor without so much as a sound.

Emma dropped the chair, panting from the effort and staring down the two men in front of her while trying to decide her next move. The two men looked at their fallen comrade and at each other, as if confused without the other man to give them orders.

The door swept open and Killian Jones walked into the tavern, his entire body filling the opening as he took in the scene in seconds, eyes noting her defiant posture, her attacker out cold, and his two mates unsure what to do. He whisked his body in their direction, his mouth settling into a hard line, eyes icy and distant, very much the stern Captain who commanded respect evident in every stride. Emma slumped in relief.

Killian placed his hands on the shoulders of the two men, squeezing tightly and causing them to wince in reaction. He gestured toward the fallen man with his head and pushed the other two in his direction. "Take him and get out. And if I see Travis bothering Miss Swan again, he'll have to answer to me."

Emma stifled a chuckle as their faces went from cautious to horror-filled, obviously imagining all sorts of diabolical things if left at the mercy of Jones. They nearly stumbled, quickly bending to pick up their fallen comrade, one at his head and one at his feet as they carried him out the door, careful to keep their eyes down as they passed the angry pirate Captain.

Once they were gone, Jones turned to Emma, a wide grin erasing all former traces of the fierce seaman. "Ah, so she lives," he said companionably.

It was true that she hadn't been much company the night before. She had literally swallowed the rest of her ale and nearly fallen over from fatigue. When Killian had seen her stagger, he had helped her to her room and left her to sleep it off.

She watched as he made his leather-clad way over to her, her breath catching at his lively smile so like her husband's first thing in the morning that she couldn't help but smile widely in return, her heart picking up tempo for the second time that morning, now because of his presence. "Good morning… Jones."

"So we're using surnames then, is that it?" Disappointment flashed through his eyes for just a second before he replaced it with indifference.

"Yeah, I prefer to keep things professional." _Mainly for my own peace of mind_. "I was just about to order breakfast, do you want anything?"

"No thank you, lass, I've already eaten." He put his hand out to indicate that he'd wait for her while she procured something to eat.

She nodded and walked back to the kitchen to find the owner of the tavern.

A few minutes later, a small loaf of bread and a cup of milk in hand, she joined Killian at the table where he sat quite comfortably slouched, mischief dancing in his clear blue gaze as he followed her every move.

"Well then, Swan, I can wait no longer. Exactly what realm are you from?" he asked with interest, and she sat down across from him, sipping her milk.

She looked up at him from over the rim of her mug, savoring the thick creamy liquid that nearly satisfied her hunger all on its own, although she would have given anything for some chocolate to put in it. "I'm from the land without magic," she said cautiously.

He leaned his forearm across the table and spoke matter of factly. "Haven't heard of that one. But I'm sure it works the same as the rest. We need to find a bean and then we can open a portal and send you back through."

She inhaled deeply, and began speaking quietly. "I'm afraid it may not be as easy as all that." She took another sip of her milk, regretting what she had to tell him in case he decided not to help her after all. At his questioning eyes she continued, "I'm from your future. And I need to get back there."

He took a deep breath, studying her before leaning his chair back and lacing his hands on the back of his head, his eyes moving to the ceiling. "How far into the future?"

She paused a second, apprehensive. Still keeping her voice down, she said, "Approximately three hundred years… give or take."

He sputtered, chair scraping the floor noisily as he bolted upright. "Three hundred years!"

She flinched and stared down at her bread, breaking it into tiny pieces as she tried to work out an alternative course of action if he walked away. She could think of nothing, and prayed he would help her. She could only imagine what it was like for him to meet someone who already knew him—he must be taken more than a little off guard, and she knew from experience that he usually shrouded himself in sass and sarcasm when he felt uneasy. He surprised her.

"That could prove to be a mite more difficult than just finding a bean and opening a portal. As far as I know, portals open space, not time." She could see him thinking, trying to come up with an idea or a possible solution.

"Leave it to me to find the most difficult way of doing something," she said sarcastically, offering him a piece of her broken bread. "Will you still help me?"

.

.

Killian gazed into her beautiful pleading eyes and couldn't find it in himself to tell her no. She actually believed he was her only hope. She trusted him, plain as day in her reticent gaze, had placed all her confidence in him, only him, leaving him feeling conflicted. Pride mingled with a bit of fear surged through him, the weight of her trust situating almost uncomfortably in his gut. Yet the chance for a hero's journey was being presented to him by an intriguing woman who was tougher than most men he knew. Her unwavering faith was a burden, but it also made him feel noble again—serving a purpose greater than himself, like he had under Liam's command. And although her safety would be completely in his hands, he was Killian Jones, a man of his word, and he would help her for as long as he was able.

He spoke softly, accepting the token fare. "Aye, lass. I'll assist you." He popped the bread into his mouth and put his hands back behind his head again, holding his shining blue eyes on her.

Exhaling deeply, relief flooded her features as she finished off the last few pieces of her meal. "Thank God," she whispered. Then looking up at him she asked, "So what now?"

"Well, I'm going to pack my things and leave my ship in the capable hands of Mr. Smee. Then you and I are going to take a little trip."

"Where to?" She tilted her head, curious.

"To those who have answers. The fairies," he said playfully, looking forward to traveling with her.

"The fairies?" she asked, confused. "I thought you just had to wish upon a star and they would come." He didn't know what kind of fairies she was talking about, but they sounded much nicer in her time.

"Not quite," he chuckled, "I only wish it were that easy. The fairies are ruled by the White Fairy, a proud and mean-spirited little sprite who keeps interactions with humans to a minimum."

"Is there no one else?" Her brow furrowed with anxiety, and a sudden desire to wipe away her frown washed through him with a vehemence he'd never experienced with any woman before.

He ignored his inclinations. "Not unless you want to work with the Dark One?"

His question brought her up short. "Rumplestiltskin?" she said tentatively.

He narrowed his eyes in her direction, removing his hands from the back of his head and sitting up straighter, resting his hands on his knees as he leaned forward. "How do you know that name?"

"In my time he was the Dark One." Emma stared off in the distance, as if remembering something. "Wait, do you know Milah?" She grasped her hands together tightly as she waited for his answer.

"So the coward finally finds the courage to defeat someone? That's interesting." He stroked his chin, deep in thought. "Yes, I know Milah; how to do you know her?" he asked off-hand, somewhat distracted by the idea of Rumplestiltskin gaining the power of the Dark One.

Emma didn't answer, and sipped from her cup instead. He frowned as he searched her face. "How do you know me, Swan?"

Her voice was low, as though she were afraid of what she was saying. "You and I were… are… friends."

She said 'friends' as though she wasn't sure what they were. "Friends, eh?" Her manner was so hesitant he suspected there was more information to be had, but already guessed enough about her to know it wouldn't be forthcoming.

"Yeah, friends. Anyway, I need to get back to my family. I miss my husband and my son," she said with finality in her tone. He was right; she wouldn't be sharing anymore personal information.

He let it go, for now. "Pray tell how it is that I'm even alive in your time?"

"You did a stint in Neverland." She raised her voice at the end of the sentence, as though it were a question, as though she were afraid her answer would change his mind.

"Neverland?" Killian stared at her, raising one brow in question.

"Where no one grows old," she supplied.

"Aye, I know the place. My brother and I traveled there some time ago." Neverland? He had vowed never to return to the accursed place. What had changed to make him go back there?

"Liam? How long ago?" she asked respectfully, looking down at the table between them.

He tilted his head to the side, eyes wary. She knew about Liam too? "It happened six years ago," he said quietly, a pang of sorrow passing through him at the mention of his brother, but then stilling, not hurting as much as it used to.

She nodded, then lifted her eyes upward, lingering at the open neck of his white shirt. Good. She wasn't completely unaffected by him. She had been playing it cool ever since she realized he wasn't exactly who she thought he was, and Killian Jones was accustomed to women falling all over their feet for his attentions. _But not her_, he thought, piquing his interest in the riveting lass.

"Well then, Swan, shall we?" He stood, chair scraping the stone floor, and offered her his outstretched hand. She smiled tentatively and took it. Her skin was soft, definitely not like the hands of a coarse work-woman or tavern wench. He shivered at her touch, hiding it behind a slight bow of his head.

What was he going to do with this beautiful lass who'd come to him for help, who knew about his past and future? He'd never had anyone blindly trust him as she was now, not even his crew, and they knew he'd die to protect them, pirate or no. He believed in good form and a code of honor and to date had kept his reputation flawless. Wherever their path took them, he would not let the lass down.


	3. A Forest Hike

Chapter 3: A Forest Hike

Killian and Emma had been walking for what seemed like forever through the dappled shade of the forest, at first following a well-worn path. At some point, they had turned away from the main avenue, taking a side aisle that led into the sweltering sun along a tree-line with an open field off to their right. Emma wasn't fully recovered from her first three-day trek, and frankly she was beginning to wonder if she had gone soft since her last major hike through Neverland about three years previous. Killian, however, seemed to be enjoying himself as they marched on the edge of the trees, attempting light conversation whenever he found something interesting to point out, not seeming to care that Emma was cranky and mostly non-responsive.

Twenty-four. He was twenty-four years old. So young! No wonder he was hiking so easily in front of her, leading the way with a satchel slung across one shoulder filled with what she assumed were supplies. _I bet he has fewer scars too_, she thought absently, catching herself staring at his backside yet again, only to tear her eyes away, the sight of his happy strut wrenching at her heart and making her miss her husband even more if that was possible.

He carried a stick in his right hand, having picked it up in the forest for swatting at low hanging branches, that he now used as a walking stick, since the tree-line they were following had very few bushes poking out beyond it, and the ones that did could easily be skirted.

He had finally relinquished his leather jacket when the sun hit its zenith. Emma had tied hers around her waist ages ago, sweat making rivulets in the dust that covered her body. _What she wouldn't give for a wash_. After awhile, the sound of their feet swishing through the short grasses soothed Emma's tired mind, the regular tempo lulling her into a trance, until he spoke.

"Well, lass, as we'll be on the trail for quite awhile yet, and you already seem to know so much about me, why don't you tell me a little about yourself." He spoke with ease—a genuine attempt to draw her into a conversation.

She paused, guarded and unsure, her tone clipped. "Look, I'm not here for a chat. I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible."

He twisted his head around, crystal blue eyes carefully studying her face before taking on a teasing note. "Are you always so short-tempered?"

She shrugged and answered honestly. "Sometimes."

He stopped walking, allowing her to catch up with him, stopping her forward motion with a hand on her shoulder since she was intent on passing him by. "Look, Swan, I know you trust me with your life." He gave her the _open book_ look she'd seen so many times her stomach did a flip-flop with how much it reminded her of _him._ "Do you not trust me any further?" His earnest expression softened her demeanor, making her feel more than a little guilty at having been short with him.

"It's not that." She looked away from his intense gaze carefully probing her for an explanation.

"Then what is it?" he asked gently.

How was she supposed to tell him that the burden of history rested on her shoulders? That she loved him with everything she had inside of her? That she was dying as she watched him walk in front of her, his swagger making her want to leap on him from behind and let him hold her, comfort her, reassure her that he'd get her back to her son? This Killian Jones was so different from the Captain Hook she'd first met. He had been a liar and a cheat, using anyone he could to get his precious revenge. But over time that had changed, Killian Jones had emerged like a phoenix from the ashes, his black heart altering, until it began to beat in time with hers, until their rhythms were indistinguishable. The man standing before her was Killian Jones, and Captain Hook was nowhere in sight.

She knew from experience that her path would be infinitely easier if he were Hook.

She settled for part of the truth. "Listen, Jones. I'm from the future, where you live too. I don't know what to tell you that might not rearrange… things. As it is, my being here could completely change your future and possibly mine too."

"Would that be so bad?" He tucked a lock of hair over her shoulder and an unreadable emotion quickly passed across his face before he allowed a small grin to tease the corners of his mouth. She knew that look, that flirting, stay-with-me-tonight-lass look. He was going to be the death of her.

She blushed, the weight of his left hand still pressing into her shoulder, the physical contact and his closeness flustering her. "Of course!" she snapped, "I happen to like the life I'm trying to get home to."

He let go of her and rubbed the back of his neck. "I see. Well then, tell me something innocuous, something that wouldn't affect actions. Like, what's your favorite color?"

She smiled, looking down at her feet, and they both continued walking side by side. "Red."

"And mine is…"

"Black." She cut him off, assurance and finality in her tone.

"No, you brazen lass, I was going to say blue—the color of the ocean specifically. Perhaps you don't know as much about me as you seem to think." He tapped her head with his finger, somewhat condescendingly although playfully.

She raised her brows at him in surprise, trying to detect a lie. He wasn't lying. That was new. In her time his favorite color was definitely black; he'd told her so on numerous occasions.

"Next. Tell me about your childhood." They came to a break in the tree-line, a path clearly visible through the tall hardwoods. He guided them back into the forest, still walking by her side, the path occasionally narrowing enough that their arms casually brushed each other.

"That's getting a little deep, don't you think?" She tried to ignore the shiver that passed through her every time she felt his warm skin underneath the linen of his shirt with the sweep of his arm next to hers.

"Why? I'm merely trying to make conversation, and I don't see how my knowing about your childhood could possibly affect future actions." He stepped over a fallen tree branch, stretching out his hand to her.

She waved the proffered hand away, not trusting herself to let go if she took it, and considered that maybe he had a point there. "It's a long story, and not a very pleasant one."

"We have some time. And I'm all ears to find out how it is that you're such a _tough lass_." He winked at her, glancing briefly at her well-muscled arms to make his point.

She rolled her eyes at him. She knew he was genuinely interested—he always had been—and knowing she could trust him made her more willing to share. So to make the time pass more quickly and the trek a little easier to bear, Emma told him a little about her past.

She started her story at the beginning, with being found on the side of the road and then placed in the foster care system.

"Foster care?" He held back a low hanging branch as she passed him by so it wouldn't strike her in the face.

"Thank you. Where you essentially belong to the state… the government… that in turn pays a family to take you in instead of staying in an orphanage. I lived with several different foster families and in between, the orphanage."

"So you moved around frequently?" He was straight forward, no pity detectable in his tone, which gave her a small measure of relief.

"You could say that. I never had the opportunity to put down roots because I never stayed in any one place longer than a couple of years. It was hard, but I did learn to be self-sufficient." she said with a half-smile.

He was quiet for a minute, considering.

"Now you," she said. "Tell me something about growing up with Liam."

"Fair enough, lass." He smiled and nodded. "Liam was ten years older than I, so sometimes he was more like a father than a big brother. My own father left when I was a child." She nodded; she knew that much.

"Liam was already in the Royal Navy by then, so I was taken in by an elderly neighbor who raised me. Her name was Mrs. Fritz, a widow who had no children of her own. Liam came to check on me every so often to make sure I wasn't running the poor old woman ragged, which of course I did." He smiled in remembrance, an eyebrow cocking up in amusement.

"What's so funny?" she asked interestedly.

"Ah, well, it's just that on one such visit, Liam walked into the main room of the house to find me bent over Mrs. Fritz's knee, grunting while she gave me a thrashing I wasn't likely to forget. Liam walked in wide-eyed, but when he caught Mrs. Fritz's eye, he clamped his lips together and stalked out. He told me later that he'd nearly burst out laughing—Mrs. Fritz a sore sight, struggling to keep my squirming body on what was left of her lap, hair poking out at all kinds of crazy angles, face red and pulsing with rage. He said he figured whatever I had done must have deserved the punishment."

"What had you done?" Emma had never heard this story before and was all ears.

"Stoned her chickens." He shrugged, as if that were perfectly understandable behavior.

"What possessed you?" Emma asked incredulously, although not surprised that her pirate had been a very mischievous boy.

"I had bought a new slingshot with hard earned coins, you see, and had to test it," he said matter of factly.

She chuckled. "Yes, you did deserve it."

"Aye, I did… but it was worth the beating." He nudged her arm and waggled his brows when she turned her face to his.

Emma laughed earnestly then, losing herself in his easy conversation. She suddenly stopped, catching herself, remembering that she couldn't indulge in this luxury of companionship with him or she'd lose her heart all over again.

He turned toward her as they walked, watching her carefully with a questioning gaze. She wouldn't give in to those beautiful blue eyes asking her what was wrong. She brushed past him on the path, flustered once again, trying to make out just how she was going to resist his ample charm.

.

.

Killian didn't know what had just happened. He sensed the change in her even before she had abruptly stopped laughing. She looked confused, agitated and almost angry. He hoped he hadn't said anything that might have offended her, but thinking over his comments, he couldn't imagine what it would have been. Frowning as she brushed past him, he let her lead for awhile, quietly correcting her course as necessary, wondering about her, but respectful enough not to ask what had her so prickly.

Sometime around early afternoon, they encountered a clearing near a small stream. As soon as she saw the water, Emma ran toward it, removing her boots hastily. Killian smiled as she hopped on one foot, pulling off her sock and nearly stumbling onto the mossy bank.

"Ahhhh. That feels so good." She stood ankle deep in the water, holding her trousers up with her fists, as the clear water washed over her feet.

Killian sat down, keeping one knee up and leaning on it as he pulled a piece of hardtack from the satchel he'd grabbed from his ship. He grinned at the ecstasy on her face, her sigh of pleasure making his insides do little flip-flops.

"I could give you a rub-down if you like, lass," he smirked, patting the ground next to him in invitation.

"You wish. I'm not in that much pain, pirate," she shot back.

"Pity. Well, perhaps after we've made it past the fairies' _deterrents_." He wasn't looking forward to the next few hours. He had stopped in the clearing to give Emma a break and regain a little of her strength before they traveled on. She'd need the rest.

Emma groaned, "I really don't like how that sounds. What deterrents?" She stepped back into the soft moss, slightly bouncing her toes on the springy substance. She sat down next to Killian and he handed her a piece of the hard biscuit.

"I'm not sure. I just know there are three outer rings of defense before anyone can get into the fairy conclave. Very few people chance it, so there's not much information available." He averted his eyes from her long legs, resisting the urge to reach out and run his hand down one of them.

"Is there no other way?" She bit into the biscuit, and he could tell she was hungry by the way she chewed so quickly.

"Not that I know of. The fairies are the keepers of magic, the Dark One too, although you said you preferred to avoid him, so I figure if anyone knows how to open a time portal, they will."

"I meant is there no other way to get around the defenses?" she asked with apprehension.

"Oh, right. The White Fairy doesn't converse with humans unless they make it through her defenses, figuring if they won't make the effort, then what they need can't possibly be worthy of her consideration." He rifled through the bag for a couple of pieces of dried meat before handing one to Emma.

When their meal was finished, they both lay down on the soft earth, and Killian stared up at the bright sky through the leaves in the trees. The tension in his muscles slowly ebbed, and he allowed the soft sounds of the forest to clear his mind.

A gentle snore broke through the quiet, and Killian rolled himself to his side to watch the striking lass lying comfortably beside him. His breath caught at the sight of her long-limbed physique, the sunlight giving her the look of being lit from within. She had to be one of the most beautiful women he'd ever encountered, her lovely skin beckoning for his touch, the slight crinkle between her brows begging for a kiss to smooth them. He swallowed thickly, intrigued by the way she brought out the playful and protective side of him. He was much more accustomed to the adaptable ladies of the night, although he didn't often avail himself of them, or women like the saucy Milah, hardworking farm women who found themselves in the taverns at night to escape their lonely lives for a bit of fun.

No, there was something different about Emma Swan, although he'd be damned if he knew what it was. _Quite literally_, he thought, given his strong reaction to the lass.

A cursory glance at the position of the sun told him it was time to go, although he loathed to disturb her rest. Running his hand lightly across her arm, indulging his desire to caress the soft skin before she woke up, he gently shook her awake.

Her mouth formed a tight line and she snapped, "Come on, can't I just a rest for a little bit?"

"You've been asleep for an hour, lass. We need to get back on the path so we make it through the defenses before nightfall." He spoke with a tender smile, letting her know that he didn't take her sharp tone personally.

Emma sat up, rubbing her feet before putting her socks and boots back on. "Thanks," she said begrudgingly.

"What for?" He stood over her and draped his bag across his shoulder, offering her a hand up.

She took it and rose up quickly. "For letting me rest. I guess I'm still tired from the last few days."

A surge of compassion washed through him, and he brushed his hand across her cheek, his emotions almost raw, perhaps from having watched her in her sleep for too long. "Once we get there, you should be able to acquire the rest you seek."

He saw her fight the urge to lean into his hand before abruptly turning her cheek away. "Okay then, let's move on," she said stoically, wrapping her jacket more tightly around her waist so it wouldn't slip off.

"After you, milady." He bowed his head slightly and put his arm out, hiding his disappointment at her rejection of his touch.

.

.

The path was easy enough to follow, although as they traveled closer to their destination, the sun faded into gray and the wind began to pick up. It couldn't have been more than an hour from their last stop. "Is there a storm approaching?" Emma asked. She knew he always seemed to sense the weather before it made a presentation.

He looked up into the sky. "There shouldn't be. But I don't think this is a storm brought on by natural causes." His face looked concerned, and he kept glancing between the sky and the path ahead, as if trying to figure out if this was one of the three tests. He moved to her side, his warm hand grasping hers. "I hope you don't mind," he lifted their hands a little with a half-smile, "but I don't like the looks of the air around us."

Emma shook her head and clasped his hand a bit more tightly, trying to ignore how comforting his large grip felt. Instead she focused on the wind that whipped hers and Killian's hair, a sudden gust ripping at the edges of their jackets and making her step a little closer to him.

Out of nowhere, she saw a butterfly that should have been too fragile to fight the wind, fluttering happily ahead of them, as though there wasn't a gale bending the trees and causing a shower of leaves to coat the ground.

She saw another butterfly and another. They were beautiful, their brightly colored wings glinting in the low light, shimmering like dancing rainbow-colored sparks as they darted about. They began flitting closer and closer to Emma and Killian as they walked. Something about their manner seemed odd and frankly frightened Emma a little. She glanced up at Killian and saw that his anxious expression mirrored her own. They seemed predatorial almost, as though they were hunting in a pack.

"Ow!" Emma shouted, her voice dying in the rushing wind. "What was that?" They stopped walking forward, watching as the butterflies stopped advancing too, holding their position, as if waiting to see what Killian and Emma were going to do.

.

.

Killian stood fast, his eyes trained on the deadly dance of the millions of butterflies that had appeared out of nowhere and were now blocking the path and a good portion of the forest. _This must be the first ring of defense_. His stomach clenched as he looked over at Emma, a thin razor-like cut prominently splayed across her cheek. He lifted a finger and pointed to the red line, speaking loudly over the roaring of the wind. "I don't think these are ordinary insects."

Emma touched her cheek, wincing at the cut that was already bleeding. "It looks like these little bastards are one hell of a defense line." She looked back up at Killian, tightening her grip on his hand momentarily, and said so softly that he had to strain to hear her, "You know… you don't have to come with me."

He flashed a wide smile, hoping to calm her nerves. "And miss the chance to rescue a damsel in distress? I wouldn't dream of it."

Her expression remained serious. "I only said that to get you to agree to help me."

He brushed a lock of hair over her shoulder. "And what kind of gentleman would I be if I went back on my word?" He saw her eyes flicker to his lips briefly.

Her face went from yielding to mask-like, and he wondered once again what he had said to make her go rigid. She rolled her eyes. "Right. The gentleman thing."

Truth was, Killian did not relish going through a bunch of butterflies that could somehow inflict wounds like a razor. But a promise was a promise, and he wouldn't leave Swan on her own against the nefarious midges. "Here, lass, put on your coat and do it up. The leather should offer some protection."

He tore the fabric of his shirt at the shoulder seams, ripping with several short jerks until the sleeves came free. He pulled out his knife and cut two small holes in the middle of both lengths and handed one to her. He tied one sleeve around his face, centering the holes over his eyes. She followed suit.

He buttoned his own leather jacket, pulling up the collar, stuffing his hands in his pockets to cover as much skin as possible. "Ready?" he shouted through the shirt and over the wind.

Killian saw her steel herself with a curt nod before shouting back, "As ready as I'll ever be."

"We'll run straight through the center of them. Try to stay as close to me as possible so we give them less room to attack." He watched her pretty green eyes through the fabric, looking for signs of panic, and was impressed to find only a moderate uneasiness.

Emma nodded again and stuffed her hands in her pockets after checking that as much of her neck as possible was covered before shouting, "On three. One… Two… Three."

They took off into the cloud of angry pests, heads down and running as fast as they could.


	4. Tests

**Beta-read by the amazing Revenessa.**

**Thanks for all the reviews, follows and favs! Enjoy!**

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Chapter 4: Tests

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Emma grunted in irritation, a sliver of tender, exposed skin under her earlobe having been spliced open from the few butterflies that stood out from the main cloud—not too bad, certainly manageable, like the slip of a razor whose laceration doesn't hurt right away, only when the blood starts to flow. But then she was running headlong into the writhing horde, intent on maintaining her footing in the increased wind, and doing her best to keep from crying out as she felt their razor sharp wings slicing into every other piece of exposed skin around her neck and forehead. They scratched at her scalp and tore through the thin linen of the sleeve around her face. Eyes mere slits, she watched fixatedly as shreds of her clothing peeled away, lost forever in the mass of glistening and twisting bodies. The burning, the little hisses as her skin parted beneath the tiny knives, the butterflies drawn to her white skin peeking out from the layers of clothing like moths to a flame, Emma couldn't remember a time when she had ever hurt so much. She couldn't keep from flinching as existing cuts were sliced in new directions. Sharp pain coursed through her and she prayed they'd be through the horde quickly.

They were. But that had to have been one of the longest thirty seconds of her life. Bending over, her heart racing from the sprint as she tried to catch her breath, Emma rested her hands on her knees, eyes closed, the sweat from her palms stinging her slashed skin underneath her tattered jeans. She stood up and gingerly untied what was left of the shirt away from her head, moving slowly to prevent her injuries from hurting anymore than necessary.

She heard him walk over to her in an angry stride, waiting patiently for her to turn to him. But she was afraid to lift her battered face to Killian's eyes.

Taking a deep breath for courage, wincing as the warm air passed over her split lips, she straightened and jolted as she took in his appearance. His leather jacket and pants hung in shreds all around him, angry red lines peeking through the gaps in his clothing. But his face. His handsome face was one bloody mess, all except for his eyes. His icy blue eyes, somehow spared in the mad dash, stared out of perfectly healthy skin while the rest of his face looked like red lattice. She knew she couldn't look much better.

His eyes went from angry to compassionate as he took in her bleak expression. A smirk twisted his lips, pain crossing his features momentarily with the motion, and as if attempting to cheer her up, he said quietly, "This is where I wish I would have said, 'No, lass, you go on ahead, I'll catch up.'"

She snorted to choke back a laugh, grateful that he still had his sense of humor even in the midst of their mess.

He kept looking at her, and raised his hand as if to touch her face, but dropped it before he did. "Swan, I hope this was worth it," he said seriously.

"I have to get home, I just have to," she pleaded. Killian paused and then nodded.

A loud whoosh blasted through the forest and they turned their heads simultaneously toward the rushing air, expecting to see the dark twisting cloud behind them. Nothing was there except the path they had been following before. There was no storm, no swarm of angry butterflies, nothing except the happy forest and its accompanying noises, the bright sun poking through the canopy above in dozens of gay spotlights.

"I guess if you make it through the first line of defense, they figure they'll encourage you to leave whenever you're ready. Damn sprite," Killian chuffed almost to himself.

There was nothing for them to do except forge on ahead.

Emma was grateful that the wind had died down. As it was, every slight breeze tore across her sensitive skin like a rough cloth, with much less precision than the wings of the butterflies had.

.

.

Killian walked a little ahead of her, exasperated that the fairies' defense line had done so much damage to both their clothing and skin. He had expected some kind of obstacle, but that had been bloody vicious and rather ridiculous as far as he was concerned. Every movement hurt as his tattered clothing brushed over the thin cuts, the worst being the ones on his face, in the crook of his elbows, and in the sensitive skin behind his knees. The only part of his body relatively unaffected was his hands, having had the double layer of leather protecting them in his pockets.

And Swan! She looked a sight—behind every opening in her clothing peeked blood spattered skin, including her beautiful face that was no less striking even with all the lacerations. He wanted to hold her and heal her and protect her. Whoever she was going home to was a lucky man; she had more mettle than nearly anyone he knew.

He moved his head back and forth, eyes sweeping the landscape before them, searching for the next line of defense. It wasn't long before he stopped short, Emma nearly bumping into him—he could feel her closeness—and glad she hadn't since it would have hurt like hell.

"What is it?" She looked around him to see what had gained his attention.

"It's a patch of thorns," he said with a sigh, trying not to let defeat overtake him.

She came up alongside of him then, staring at the obstruction with wide eyes. The patch was flush with the ground, as though a pit had been dug out like an immense moat and filled with a dense hedge of three-inch thorny spikes that fanned out to either side of them indefinitely. He couldn't help but shudder as he imagined what it would feel like to fall into that expanse with all the slices currently adorning his skin.

"You've got to be kidding me. How are we supposed to cross that?" she asked in disbelief.

"Very carefully." He went to step forward, testing the weight of the hedge, hoping he'd be able to just walk across the thickest spots, but when his foot hit the first hard branch, it gave way beneath his foot, melting like quicksand, until his entire boot was sunk into the hedge.

"Or maybe not." Emma said sarcastically. "Back to my earlier question, how are we supposed to cross that?"

"Give me a minute, Swan." Killian's voice sounded sharp to his ears. And no wonder, he couldn't sit down and he had trouble thinking from the stinging pain that coursed along his body. All the wounds were superficial, but hurting nonetheless, and it was taking a minute for his brain to clear through the fog and start functioning again. He'd be damned if he'd turn around and go home either, the challenge of having already come this far spurring his unwilling body into action.

He started tapping his fingers together, grateful that his hands were untouched. He stopped the motion as an idea popped into his head. "How do you get across a bog?"

"I've no clue." She was watching him closely, curious.

"What, Swan, never traversed a bog before?" He raised an eyebrow, but quickly lowered it when his entire forehead screamed in protest.

"Can't say that I have, even in my extensive travels," she answered blandly. "What are you thinking?"

"We need to increase our surface area." At her questioning gaze, he continued, "Distribute our weight more evenly, so the hedge can't swallow us."

"That makes sense. How?" She turned back to the thorns and a look of relief passed across her face at what he assumed was his confidence they could get across.

"We'll make bog shoes." He left the edge of the thorns and began hunting around for the necessary materials.

"Bog shoes?" Emma stood rooted in the same spot, but turned her head slightly to look at him skeptically.

He grimaced with the strain of bending over as his clothing stretched across his skin. "When I was a lad, a patch of the best strawberries grew on the side of a large hill. But to get there I had to cross the valley below, and the valley was one giant bog, the sun never able to dry out that section of land on account of the angles of the surrounding terrain. I used to make a shoe of sorts that fit on the bottom of my boot so I could get across."

"Those must have been some really good strawberries." Emma followed him over to the outskirts of the path as he kept searching.

"Well, that and the adventure itself being fun. There's a thrill to defeating nature when she throws out her best." He rifled along some bushes, finally taking a knife to a few thin saplings that grew in the center of them.

"I'm beginning to understand why you like sailing so much." Her voice held a smile, although he didn't look up at her right away.

When he did look up, his eyes hardened for just as second as he beheld the angry red lines on her beautiful face. He couldn't think about their injuries right now, so he kept walking and bending as he searched around for more of the flexible twigs.

Sure enough, there were plenty of young saplings in the area. "Here, do you see these plants?" He handed her a dagger from his pack. "Cut them about yea long and bring them back to me. I'll need about forty for each of us."

.

.

The work went quickly, and thankfully Emma found lots of available saplings that he needed cut to about three feet long. She tried not to think about the pain. The cuts on her arms and legs were scabbing over, but still stung like long, thin paper cuts.

As soon as they had gathered enough saplings, Killian set to work weaving them into an intricate pattern. It took all of about fifteen minutes for him to weave four large, flat shoes that resembled snow shoes.

Emma held Killian's gaze a moment. "I'm impressed."

"Always aim to please, love." He winked over at her, and she realized he was still handsome, even with the criss-cross of narrow red lines all over his face. It was hard not to love him a little more in that moment, and she might have hugged him if she hadn't thought it would be really painful for the both of them.

He showed her how to attach the "shoes", securing the lashings around the tops of her boots and around her ankles. She took a couple of tentative steps in them, amazed at how light they felt, even if they were a bit awkward, as she stepped with her legs splayed outward so her new shoes wouldn't knock into each other.

Killian watched as she got the hang of it. "Alright, then. I'll go first. You stay just to the side and behind me a little. No sudden movements, but stay in motion at all times. Do you want to practice some more?"

She thought she had gotten the hang of it, so she shook her head no, looking up at him with trepidation in her gaze, the thought of being swallowed by a thorny hedge when she was already covered in cuts filling her with dread.

"Don't worry. We'll be fine. These defenses aren't designed to kill anyone, just to test their mettle. And that, my love, you have in spades." His eyes held affection, even though his mouth didn't follow suit on account of the pain. She was grateful for his reassurance.

Killian stood just in front of the pit of thorns, Emma lined up just a little behind and to the side of him as he had advised, ready to get going. He lifted his foot to place it on the first few branches, descending onto the thorns delicately. When they didn't move and his foot didn't sink, he began walking slowly and carefully, the hedge supporting his weight.

Emma let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, relief flooding through her when she saw that the shoes worked. She had to admit that he made it look easy. He was almost too graceful as he rolled his large shoes over the top of the unyielding thorns, moving slowly but steadily over the expanse.

Emma mimicked his movements as best she could, but wobbled a little here and there, causing the thorns to undulate like a wave from the edges of her shoes. Every time her steps weren't perfectly smooth, she could feel the suck of the thorns beneath her, as though she really was mired in some kind of muddy bog. It was strange and disconcerting at the same time, the rippling movement giving the spiked hedge the appearance of being alive.

Killian had moved a little further ahead of her, maybe about five feet instead of the two they had started out with. He stepped onto the hard ground, turning back around in triumph. "We made it!"

Emma's eyes smiled back at him, relieved that this trial would be over with just a few more strides. She lifted her foot to take another step and in her haste to get out of the awkward situation, she lost her balance, nearly falling as she quickly put her foot back down. Just as she thought she was going to be okay, her shoe turned sideways a little bit. The thorns began sucking the shoe into them, hard, as if putting everything they had into grabbing their victim, having been thwarted from taking the man. "Killian!"

.

.

Killian had been removing his shoes when she shouted his name. He quickly raised his head, instantly seeing the problem, but keeping his expression serene so she wouldn't panic. "Can you jump?"

Emma's shoe was fast becoming submerged and he struggled to keep himself calm. He wouldn't have enough time to reattach his shoes and get her, but if it came to her going under, he'd jump in after her, thorns be damned.

She bent down to untie her boot from the lashings securing it to the shoe. As soon as she did, the shoe went under and she stood on one foot, balancing her weight precariously on the edge of the other shoe. Her eyes were wide and frightened, staring as the remaining shoe began to sink, slowly, as all her weight became concentrated in one spot.

Killian had to keep her calm. "Look at me, lass." When she did, he continued in a smooth, strong voice, "That's it. Now I want you to untie your boot from the other shoe." She balanced uneasily as she bent down and untied it. She stood back up very carefully, obviously trying not to wobble. "Slow and steady, that's it. Alright. When I count to three, I want you to leap toward my arms and I'll catch you."

Emma nodded once, her smoky green eyes locked on his, focused and ready. "One… Two… Three."

Emma lowered her left foot to the side of the large shoe, bent her knees, and jumped with all she had toward his open arms. The shoe beneath her gave way, stealing her momentum and causing her to land about one foot shy of him. But she had thrown herself forward and he wrapped his arms tightly around her back, just under her arms. He could feel the thorns sucking at her boots, threatening to drag her under. He tugged her roughly toward him, grunting under her weight and the strong pull of the thorns around her legs.

She popped free and they both fell to the ground, Emma landing squarely on top of him with a loud "Umpf!"

.

.

Every point of contact on her body screamed in protest at being touched. But even with the sting of her wounds, Emma found herself melting into his comforting embrace, resting her head against his chest as she listened to the quick beat of his heart and her own ragged breathing. She sighed, her breath tickling a few of the chest hairs peeking out from his tattered jacket, his warm and spicy scent filling her head with thoughts of _her_ Killian. She knew she had remained in his arms too long when she felt him shiver beneath her, his heart beat quickening instead of slowing, and he almost imperceptibly tightened his hold on her.

"I can think of more enjoyable ways to get you on top of me, Swan," he said rakishly.

She could hear the smirk in his voice. "Really? Is that all you can think about after… after that?" Flustered and trying to hide it, she rolled off of him carefully, standing up and grimacing when she saw the fresh wounds around her knees where the thorns had dug into her skin. She offered him her hand and he took it and stood.

A loud whoosh sounded and they both turned around, looking back over the bog of thorns, which of course had disappeared already, leaving the happy forest path in their place.

"I guess we passed through the second defense," he said dryly.

"I hate to think what the last one is." She couldn't believe they had made it through two of the three lines of defense. This was harder than she had ever expected just to see the fairies. She wondered briefly about Blue, wishing she were the one in charge, having always made herself accessible to anyone who needed her, even if she was on the serious side.

"You know, lass, I'd venture a guess that these are not only defense lines, but tests." He adjusted his pack across his shoulder, wincing as he did so, and then turned to continue down the path.

She jogged up to him until she was at his side, looking over at him curiously.

He continued, "The butterflies would be a test of bravery, of fortitude. The thorn hedge would test resourcefulness." He paused, thoughtful.

"And the last?" she asked, almost dreading the answer.

"I imagine it would be endurance," he said easily, like the last two tests weren't insane.

Emma shuddered to imagine what that could entail, but knew she would find out soon enough.


	5. The Lodge

**Beta-read by the wonderful Revenessa. **

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Chapter 5: The Lodge

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Hot, sweaty, tired and irritated, Killian and Emma walked along the endless forest path, well past

the spot where the fairy conclave should be, and if they hadn't been following such a clear trail, Killian might have thought they'd missed a turn. He kept sweeping his eyes back and forth, searching for the last line of defense, but not seeing anything of note, the path continuing on as before. He watched the sky, convinced that it should be darkening at any moment with the descent of the sun, only to find that it appeared to be fixed in one spot. In fact, it looked like it hadn't moved in the last few hours. _So this _is_ a test of endurance_, he thought sourly.

Their conversation had dwindled as fatigue overtook them. His eyes eventually settled on his feet and he strove to keep moving, wishing for nothing more than this mad trek to end quickly. The pain from his cuts had diminished to a dull ache that sapped any extra energy he might have had, and it weighed on him that Emma must be suffering as well, although she made no sound except an occasional grunt.

Just when he was about to suggest taking a break, he heard her say with an edge to her voice, "Look… Oh please, not again." She groaned, frowning as she pointed up ahead.

He slowly turned his eyes further up the path, following the line of her slender finger. Directly in front of them, fanning out to either side was another cloud of tiny specks, pinpricks of light that danced too and fro. At first glance, they looked like smaller versions of the glistening butterflies without all the color, but as he advanced toward the swirls, he saw they weren't insects at all. In fact, the cloud looked like sparkly dust motes dancing in the morning light. But where dust motes were lazy and moved with air currents, these undulated in intricate patterns, each light somehow connected to its neighbor. He looked back at Emma, noting her tired eyes and the tight line of her mouth.

"What do you think they do?" she asked in dismay.

He smiled encouragingly. "I've no idea, lass. Only one way to find out, though."

"I'm not sure I want to." She stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the tiny undulating lights. The fingers of one hand caressed the other arm absently, gently rubbing a few of her scabs.

She really didn't want to do this. He could see the strain in her eyes, the fatigue from the last few days threatening to overtake her, shoulders slumping in despair. The protective part of Killian wanted to gather her up in his arms and carry her through this last obstacle, safe against his body. If he could, he would envelop her with his own determination, protecting her against any foe or pain or obstacle they should come across. But he knew it didn't work that way. If she wanted her audience with the fairies, she would have to make it through the last line of defense herself.

"Me neither. What say you to sitting here and resting for a spell? We could eat hardtack and drink from our near empty canteens, have a nap and then head back home." He raised a brow at her in challenge, wanting to prod that rebellious part of her into action, knowing full well she would forge on.

"Not really an option when you put it that way," she said with a deadpan expression.

"We can do this, Swan. Here, take my hand and we'll go through this test the same as the last."

She hesitated a moment, wavering and unsure, whether about taking his hand or about facing the last defense, he didn't know. But she took his hand anyway, glancing down at their entwined fingers before pulling her gaze up to his, resignation softening her features. She said nothing else, turning her eyes back to the moving mass of lights. There was nothing left to guard their faces; the sleeves of their jackets would offer very little if any protection this time.

They walked forward slowly, as one, heads down.

.

.

Emma felt nothing at first as they reluctantly approached the cloud of what she assumed were more insects. But once she was in the thick of the mass, she found her feet rooted to the spot where she stood. She couldn't see more than a couple of inches in front of her face, the lights blinding in their proximity, her eyes closing against the glare. She couldn't feel Killian's hand anymore either.

The lights edged closer to her body—she knew because every hair on her arms and nape of her neck stood out—and she gasped as the first ones touched her in a searing pain before blanketing her entire body. Every piece of exposed skin was licked with a freezing bite, so chilly it tingled and burned, not unlike the feeling of blood returning to an appendage that has fallen asleep. She heard Killian's sharp intake of breath, but there were no words or swears that fell from his lips. If he was experiencing what she was, then she understood why, the glacial embrace took all words away.

Every gash on her body was ripped opened anew. Every thin scab was peeled away, her wounds oozing as they gaped open all over again. Excruciating pain caused her to cry out as the lights encircled and enveloped her, leaving no part of her body unaffected.

It lasted for an hour, or what felt like an hour since there was no way of knowing how much time had actually passed. The intimate fiery touch of those things, whatever they were, caressed her like a pox that is indifferent in its attentions as to where it inflicts its damage.

The pain became so acute, so all encompassing, that she could feel her head stretching upward as her mind tried to separate itself from the rest of her body, as though she could somehow flee the intensity of it, the never-ending chill scorching her skin. She remembered the last time her fingers had been frostbitten, how her colorless digits had ached almost like they were broken as the blood returned to the frozen appendages. But this wasn't just her fingers, this was her whole body.

She began to feel cold all over, and was vaguely aware of shock setting in, some observant part of her brain recalling her first aid training all those years ago. She knew then that she was going to faint.

But just before she did faint, it stopped. The pain halted as abruptly as it had started, and she sagged to the ground in blessed relief, releasing Killian's hand that she had forgotten she was even holding. She paused to catch her breath before opening her eyes to find him.

He was still standing, eyes tightly shut and mouth grim. She could see nothing of the bright spots of light, but she knew the pain had finally stopped when he groaned loudly and his tense shoulders relaxed.

He turned to her and they both gasped in surprise. Where before they had been covered in specks of blood and scabs, their skin was now perfectly smooth, as if their lacerations had never existed. Emma looked down at her arms and legs and noticed that only her clothes remained tattered and bloodied, which was why she hadn't noticed the clear skin beneath them right away.

"Swan." Killian choked.

He bent down to sit on the ground next to her, nearly losing his balance in the process. She took in the compassionate expression on his face and without realizing it, slid into his lap and put her arms around his neck. "Thank you. Thank you so much for doing this with me." Her tears started slowly at first, just a dab at the corners of her eyes, but she couldn't check them as the events of the day and the fatigue finally caught up to her.

He just held her, gruffly croodling little endearments in her ear, comforting her the same way _her_ Killian had comforted her when she had seen how happy her parents were after the birth of her brother and she had cried for all those years lost without their love.

She kept crying until all the frustration, fear and anxiety, and the weight of her current predicament found its way out of her body through the salty tears. He gently rocked her back and forth, holding her close to his body while he rubbed her back soothingly. She buried her head in his neck, inhaling his scent, musky from all the activity, and her sobs continued unabated as she cried for _her_ Killian back home, how worried he must be, and Henry, oh how she missed Henry.

She slowly became aware of what she was doing, of how close they were, of their skin touching through the shredded clothing which offered little coverage, her body warming with awareness of his hard muscles supporting her weight. She lifted her eyes to his, his intense blue gaze

filled with tenderness.

She heard a cough and twisted her head around, surprised to see a line of attractive petite women each entirely dressed in a different color standing in front of them on the path.

"Oh!" Emma stiffened and extricated herself from Killian's arms before standing up, embarrassed at having been caught in such a vulnerable position.

An older woman standing off to the side moved out in front. She was dressed all in white with long silver hair, a tight-lipped smile on her face. "Welcome to the Lodge. My name is Mother Pearl, and I am the matron in charge." Her eyes swept them up and down, lingering only briefly on their dishabille as if it was nothing of consequence.

Emma watched as another woman dressed all in purple ran to stand in the line. She was striking just like the others, her cheeks reddened in embarrassment, and she shrank into herself as if she could hide from the all-seeing eyes of the head fairy who had glanced at her briefly, narrowing her gray eyes for just a moment before turning back to Emma and Killian.

Mother Pearl continued. "I will be placing Violet here in charge of seeing to your needs." She cut her eyes to the latecomer once again, and Emma couldn't help but feel as though she and Killian were Violet's punishment for being late. They were obviously considered a burden.

Emma opened her mouth to speak, but Mother Pearl held a hand up. "I know you have many questions. Violet will see to your needs first. We will have an audience tomorrow morning." She turned away abruptly, her authority plain in her tone. She was a woman who was clearly accustomed to being obeyed.

The rest of the fairies eyed them precariously for a few more moments before silently turning to follow their leader. Only Violet stayed behind.

"Oh goodness, what luck! I never get to meet humans. How exciting!" She clasped her hands together in exuberance, looking up at them expectantly.

Emma watched the little woman with interest, wondering how she managed to stay so cheerful amid the severity of her leader.

"Lead on, lass. We're both tired and hungry from the day's travails," Killian said and winked at her. She blushed prettily in response.

Emma nudged him and he looked down at her with a shrug of his shoulders and an upraised eyebrow. She knew he was an awful flirt, but she hadn't expected to feel the twinge of jealousy when she saw his eyes sweep the form of the younger woman.

Violet led them forward on the path alone, all the other fairies having disappeared already. She stopped in front of a large tree just off the path, pressing into the rough bark with a tiny key-like instrument hanging around her neck. A door opened and she walked through, motioning them to follow her with a delicate hand.

.

.

Killian and Emma ducked their heads and followed the petite woman into the tree. She was very young, Killian thought, perhaps only sixteen or so, and charming, with an easy smile and obvious grace. He stole a quick glance at Emma, her athletic figure agile, long limbs elegant; it was her beauty he preferred.

The interior of the tree was very dark, the only light being what illuminated them from behind, giving it the appearance of a dark cave. They walked straight ahead for several minutes and Killian had to grab Emma's elbow to steady her a couple of times when she nearly stumbled with a misstep. As the light behind them shrank to a miniscule dot, they came to the end of the passage and Violet pulled out her tiny key, once again pressing it into the bark in front of them. The bark slid back and he blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight.

They were standing in a huge circle of very large trees, bigger than anything he'd seen in the Enchanted Forest, with trunks as wide as his ship was crossways. In the center of the clearing was a bright blue pool, the sunlight glinting off the water, with several fairies dressed in sleeveless tunics delightfully splashing each other. He could see small huts that resembled tiny mushrooms made from grasses and strips of tree bark tucked deliberately between the huge trees. The brightly dressed fairies were coming in and out of the huts, busily working, laughing, humming, carrying small baskets, stopping to talk with each other. The idyllic scene was devoid of any possible danger, and Killian's entire body relaxed as he released the tension he always held when venturing into the unknown.

He glanced over at Emma and saw that her expression of awe mirrored his. Dark circles rimmed her eyes still red from crying and she swayed on her feet.

"Whoa, lass." He put his arm around her to prop her up, and she smiled a weak thanks.

Violet was still walking forward. "These are the guest huts." She indicated two squat little buildings near the entry that looked much like the rest, but without all the activity surrounding them. "You'll find a cot and a basin for a quick wash. I'll be back with clothes and food." She hurried away toward another small building.

"Here we go, Swan." Killian opened the door to the first hut and led Emma inside. It was sparsely furnished with a cot along one wall, a woven mat lying on the wooden floor. He saw a small wooden bench and accompanying table that held a ewer and basin with a cloth neatly folded next to it.

He eased Emma down onto the cot and watched as she fell sideways onto the provided pillow, closing her eyes in bliss. A light snore left her mouth and he grinned down at her, amazed that anyone could fall asleep so quickly. He pulled off her boots and lifted her legs onto the bed, pulling the folded blanket up over her shoulders. He gently moved the hair away from her face, gazing at her long eyelashes and relaxed features, wondering once again who she was and what her life was like. Without quite knowing what possessed him, he placed a chaste kiss on her brow. Her lips turned up at the corners in response, and he smiled, sincerely pleased that his touch could affect her in such a way.

He gently closed the door behind him and went to his own hut, using the basin to wash his face and hands and wait patiently for the fairy to return with a change of clothing.

====o0I0o====

Having already discerned the hour to be sometime before early dawn, Emma quietly slipped out of the door of her hut, feeling rested but a little sore as she made her way to the large pool she had barely acknowledged when they had first arrived. The fairy had thoughtfully left her a cake of soap and a large piece of linen cloth Emma could only assume was for toweling off.

She crossed a large expanse of soft green grass that grew right to the edge of the now dark water, a slight fog rolling over the top of the expanse. Shivering in delight, she gratefully removed her tattered jeans and tank that stuck to her skin in the places where her congealed blood had stiffened the material.

Dressed in her bra and panties, but not really worrying since the Lodge was occupied by women only, Emma dipped her toes in first and tested the temperature and depth of the water. A soft sigh escaped her lips when she realized it was deliciously warm, tiny bubbles forming around her feet and legs as she moved. Taking the cake of soap, she stepped in deeper, a gentle slope easing away from the bank. The mossy bottom tickled and relaxed her achy feet.

Dunking her head under the water and parting the waves of her hair to get it completely saturated, she took the bar of soap and vigorously rubbed it over her tresses, surprised when it lathered up almost as much as any fine body wash. A faintly floral scent surrounded her, a huge improvement over her sweat-soaked body odor.

When her hair was complete, she washed the rest of her body twice, taking special care over the places and crevices that needed extra attention.

When she was finished, she laid back in the shallow water, resting her body on the soft bottom, allowing her legs to float lazily to the surface. The water's effervescence flitted sensually over her skin as erotic as any lover's caress.

With her sore muscles soothed and her body finally clean, Emma casually turned over and began swimming across the length of the large pond, enjoying the quiet morning to collect her thoughts before she had to face the white fairy.

"Good morning, beautiful." Killian's quiet words rolled across the water, startling Emma from her relaxing moment and filling her belly with nervous excitement. She had made it to the center of the pool, and began treading water while straining her eyes around the perimeter, searching for her pirate. No, not _her_ pirate. Her pirate was back in Storybrooke, probably going mad with worry and tearing up the town trying to find her.

She felt the ripples of water as he swam toward her. He came into view, his hair dripping over his forehead, his strong smooth strokes indicating he was an accomplished swimmer. He smiled easily, clearly enjoying the water as much as she was. He stopped a few feet in front of her.

"Good morning, Jones," she said airily, hating how nervous he made her feel.

His comfortable smile fell just a notch as he efficiently treaded water. "Have you had anything to eat yet?"

He was always concerned for her well-being, here and at home. "Yes, there was some kind of oatcake sitting on top of the clean clothing. I devoured it and then came out here for a wash."

"Aye. I saw that much," he smirked, his breath hitching slightly. Either he was winded, or she was affecting him as much as he was her.

Her face flushed and she told herself that it was the warmth of the steamy water and not the realization that he had probably watched her whole bath and enjoyed every second of it. Changing the subject to a safer topic, she asked, "What do you think of this place?" and looked around the edges of the pool.

"It's well enough. I understand why few people ever come here though." He was staring at her now, and had inched closer to her.

Emma guffawed, "Yeah, right. You'd have to be pretty determined to brave those defenses to get in."

Killian raised a brow, "Sounds like someone I know," he said pointedly. "But as to your question, I haven't been able to learn anything new. After you fell asleep, I tried to question the Violet fairy about what to expect when we meet Mother Pearl, but she was reticent to give anything away. She kept changing the topic back to personal needs, making sure I rested, that I had all the food and clothing I needed, was I warm enough, that kind of thing. It was a bit off-putting after her previous vitality."

Emma pursed her lips in thought. "I wonder what happened."

"I imagine she had a good scolding by the white fairy herself," he said mischievously, treading ever closer to her.

Ignoring his proximity and the way it sent little shivers through her limbs, she asked, "Speaking of Mother Pearl, how do you think I should approach the interview?"

He tilted his head slightly, eyes amused. "You mean, how are you most likely to get the information you seek out of her?"

"Well… yeah," she said as though that were obvious. The water lapped around them and their words came out in breathy whispers.

"Judging by just the little I've seen of her, I imagine we should remain very respectful of her authority." His leg brushed hers and Emma couldn't stop her heart from accelerating at his blue eyes that had darkened perceptibly in the starlight, at his carefree expression that invited her touch, his arms widening just a bit as though he meant to embrace her right then. She could see he wasn't wearing a shirt and she vaguely wondered if he was wearing anything else, the water too dark to tell. _Come on, Swan, focus_.

Emma abruptly turned, swallowing past the catch in her throat, and began swimming toward the shoreline where she had left her linen towel, using the time to collect herself.

He didn't say anything, but she could feel the ripples of the water as he followed behind her.

He stopped just shy of the shallow water. Emma continued until she had made it to the shore, stepping out of the water quickly, keeping her back to him while she wrapped herself in the length of linen.

She heard him get out of the water behind her and resisted the urge to turn around, not wanting to tempt herself beyond her power to refuse. As it was, he wasn't going to let her get away so easily.

"Where did you learn to swim?" he asked conversationally while she gathered her tattered clothing.

His deep voice enveloped her like a warm shawl, and without thinking, she turned back around to answer the question. Sure enough, he stood dripping wet, a pair of un-dyed linen drawstring pants hanging precariously low on his hips, sticking to his legs, the muscles of his chest rippling under the droplets that covered his skin.

Emma's mouth went dry and her arms fell limply at her sides as her eyes swept her sexy pirate. He had shaken his head so that his hair hung wet and loose around his face, a couple of locks curling over his forehead. He looked rakish in the waning starlight.

"W… what?" She had to get control over herself.

He smirked at her discomfort, raising one brow at her mockingly, although his tone kept its leisurely feel. "Where did you learn to swim? It's not often that I see a lass with such a sure _stroke_ in the water." He grinned mischievously.

She wasn't at all surprised at her reaction to him—she had always been attracted to him—no, what surprised her was that she was actively struggling to keep herself detached from his charm. Even thinking of him as Jones, as a different person all-together, didn't seem to help; her body consistently betrayed her. And yes, he had way fewer scars she noted wryly.

She turned back around and walked further away from the pool onto the soft grass. "Oh. That. I was on the high-school swim team."

She felt his hand on her shoulder and she turned around to look at him. "Will you sit with me for a bit? We have a few minutes before dawn."

His blue eyes shone intensely in the misty morning, the steam from the pool encircling them in a light fog that hid the huts from view as it mingled with the early morning air. Unable to deny his soft smile, she nodded.

Once settled in the grass, one leg outstretched and the other bent, he looked back out over the now still water and asked, "What's high-school and swim team?"

Emma chuckled, having momentarily forgotten who she was talking to. "High-school is a place of learning for teenagers, um, kids aged thirteen to eighteen. Swim team is a sport where kids compete against each other in the different strokes. There's a prize for whoever is fastest."

"Ah, I see. And were you any good at it?" he inquired.

She plucked a piece of grass and began fiddling with it to try and escape his focused gaze. "I was adequate. I occasionally brought home a trophy, uh, prize. I mostly joined to stay away from the orphanage or whatever foster home I was in. Swim team practice was right after school and kept me busy until suppertime in the warmer months."

He nodded in acknowledgment.

"What about you? Where did you learn to swim?" She tucked her knees into her chest and hugged them, curling into herself to shake the feeling of being so exposed under his vivid gaze.

"Remember the bog I was telling you about?" She nodded. "Not far from it, a fresh spring emptied into a creek bed—the overflow kept the valley wet year round, hence the bog. But the creek itself was quite deep in several spots. Liam taught me how to swim by throwing me in and letting me sputter back to the bank. It only took two such tossings before I learned the basics of swimming." He smiled, eyes faraway in remembrance.

"You and Liam were close." She spoke quietly, trying not to disturb his reverie.

"Aye, as close as two brothers could be with such a large separation in age. You want to hear a funny story?" He grinned invitingly at her, her heart speeding up in response to the delight in his eyes.

She looked away from him, but nodded.

He continued. "Liam decided that I needed to know more than just how to swim, especially if I wanted to go into the Navy like he had, so he made it a practice of tying my hands and feet together before tossing me into the creek. He said if I could get out of the water without being able to use my limbs, then I'd be safe on the sea indeed. I became quite good at it, wriggling my way to the bank like a deranged inchworm. Anyway, one day Liam brought Mrs. Fritz to the shoreline to watch my new skill, only he hadn't told her anything. He tied me up good and tight and tossed me in the water. I never heard anyone scream so loud in my life. She started beating Liam on the chest, shouting at him, 'How could you? He's my baby!' and other such nonsense. Liam was laughing so hard he was nearly crying. I wriggled onto the shore and stood to the side of her until she stopped her wailing, having already released my arms and legs from the ropes as soon as I hit the ground. It was then she realized that I hadn't drowned and pulled me into a rough embrace, patting my head and mussing my hair fiercely. She told me I was going to be the death of her." He was laughing in earnest now, eyes squinting with the effort of trying to keep quiet.

.

.

Emma giggled softly at his story, her eyes almost unreadable, as though she were hiding something. They were in a cocoon of fog and Killian could have stayed there indefinitely, telling her funny stories just to watch her eyes crinkle and her full lips quirk in pleasure. She was so beautiful wrapped in the linen, her long legs peeking out from the bottom of the long cloth. He hadn't been able to tear his eyes away as she had washed herself, his own body responding with a need he'd never felt before, leaving him feeling almost like an intruder spying on her intimate activities. Almost.

He wanted to touch her, to hold her, to love her in the soft grass with the surrounding air encapsulating them in a cushioned cloud that protected them from any onlookers. It was a magical moment.

Holding her smiling green eyes with his own, he thought to himself how easy it would be to just lean over and press his lips to hers. Yet because he instinctively knew she was different from the women he usually attended, he restrained himself. Her breathing became labored and she looked away from him, the spell broken.

A loud clanging bell rang across the clearing, loud enough to startle Killian, and Emma too by the way she jumped. He rose quickly, offering his hand to Emma, although she waved it away and stood on her own. He let it fall to his side, disappointed that she appeared to be shutting him out again, and at the same time determined to take on the challenge of winning her heart.

The fog rolled away as though the bell had been a fierce wind blowing across the pool, leaving the air crystal clear while the clanging echo abated. At the door of nearly every hut, two different colored fairies emerged, chattering happily to greet the dawn. They all nodded in sync and clapped their hands together three times before lining up single file along the far edge of the trees.

Killian and Emma jogged back toward their huts to dress for their meeting with the white fairy.

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**Review?**


	6. The White Fairy

**Beta-read by the magnanimous Revenessa!**

**So sorry about the delay, guys. I like to update twice a week, but life, you know, got in the way. Sigh!-DD**

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Chapter 6: The White Fairy

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Shaking as she tied her wet hair back in a torn strip of cloth, Emma took a deep breath and counted to ten to calm her racing heart. Her body tingled all over, the soft and loose linen pants and long-sleeved tunic sliding over her skin sensually like a pair of hands lightly grazing, exploring. Although she wished it was from the swim, fatigue and sore muscles, she knew it wasn't. She had lately been in the habit of being brutally honest with herself, having learned from her short time with her family that it's easier to face something head on, rather than stuff it and wait for it to rear its ugly head. No, Jones was affecting her alright, his crystal blue gaze telling her without words precisely what it was he wanted. The only thing she didn't know was how serious he was about it.

But whatever he was thinking or feeling, and no matter her reaction to it, she couldn't deal with that right now, being filled with a strange combination of excitement and dread, anticipation and a little fear. The White Fairy wore intimidation like a second skin, and Emma knew that the success or failure of her venture back home could depend on the small unfriendly woman. She would take Jones's advice and just remain as respectful as possible.

Donning a pair of leather-like slippers, she stepped out into the warm air, emerging from her hut to see Jones waiting for her, dressed similarly, his approving gaze lingering on her comfortable attire.

"You look like an unadorned sheik," she said straight-faced, but unable to keep the humor from her tone. He was as handsome as always, relaxed and yet ready for action at the same time. She always wondered how he managed to stay so nonchalant regardless of the situation.

Perplexed, he dropped his gaze to his attire and then back up. "Come again?"

"Maybe if we add a turban and some large necklaces…" She rolled her hand around her head to imitate the swirl of the cloth headdress.

He must have realized she was teasing. "Ahh, the way they dress in the orient. Then what would you be, love, my concubine?" he smirked.

She rolled her eyes and turned to walk toward the line of fairies waiting for breakfast. "No, I'd be your chief executioner."

She heard him chuckle behind her, "HA! That you would, lass, that you would." She could almost see him shaking his head and jogging to catch up with her, a small smile on his face.

After a fairly filling breakfast of goat cheese, another oatcake, and herbal tea, served buffet-style from one of the huts and then eaten outside, a buxom little fairy clad in head-to-toe crimson with hair to match approached Emma and Killian to take them to the white fairy. Her natural movements were infused with invitation, her dark eyes drifting over Killian in a decidedly flirty manner as she introduced herself as Garnet. _Jones' dream-girl_, Emma thought with distaste, catching his upturned brow at the girl's brazen expression.

Garnet ushered them across the large clearing, past the center pool, and past the furthest huts into the forest beyond. Emma unfortunately noticed how Jones's eyes tarried on the gentle sway of the fairy's hips, and whereas Emma's clothing was rather loose, Garnet's bright red tunic hugged her petite and shapely figure.

The quality of the forest changed remarkably once they were beyond the main circle of trees, from the casual atmosphere of a comfortable campsite to an ethereal netherworld. Large drops of dew hung from the thick branches of the tall conifer-like trees, glistening like diamonds in the sunlight. The air was clean and crisp, the smells of pine and green herbs weaving together in a compound matrix that cleansed the pallet with every breath. Tiny flowers peeked out intermittently along the path, scattered here and there at the base of the trees, cheerfully lifting their colorful faces to the sunlight streaming through the canopy in veils of fresh light.

Emma looked over at Killian, awed at having the opportunity to witness the supernatural beauty of a place few ever beheld. His expression was one of casual observance, and she realized that he had quite possibly seen such places in his many travels. He smiled gently back at her, his blue eyes translucent as they reflected the diaphanous light. He reached for her hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze before letting go and looking ahead once more.

Turning a sharp corner on the path, Killian and Emma stopped abruptly, simultaneously gasping at the unexpected structure rising above them. It was tall with rounded sides and domed roof, at least a couple of stories, and whereas the huts in the clearing resembled delicate versions of dwellings built by indigenous peoples, this had walls that shone like the thin film of a bubble.

Upon closer inspection, Emma could see that the walls were actually made from the criss-crossing of fine strands of some kind of luminous fiber, imitating the intricate workings of a spider's web with a very tight weave. As soon as she was close enough to touch, Emma reached out a tentative hand, expecting the strands to be coarse, only to find they formed a coherent structure that was cool and hard, a little bumpy like blown glass.

Garnet led them into the main door at the long end of the oval chamber. Their footsteps padded on the polished stone floor, and the light shone through the walls and ceiling in gossamer rays, refracting into hundreds of color variations, the whole room shimmering with thousands of tiny rainbows. Emma stood up straighter, wishing she could glide across the floor like a graceful dancer rather than the klutz she often was.

Short, white wooden benches lined either side of the main aisle leading up to a dais, giving the place the appearance of some kind of small and delicate cathedral, but without the stained glass, which couldn't have competed with the crystalline walls anyway.

It took Emma a moment to notice Mother Pearl sitting straight-backed on a low bench atop the platform at the opposite end of the aisle. As they walked closer, Emma could see that her bench was made out of the same material as the walls, catching the sunlight as well and bending it into tiny rainbows reflected on the smooth floor.

The white fairy's demeanor and position were meant to be imposing; Emma could tell by the woman's stark expression, her silver hair drawn back into a tight bun that pulled at the edges of her face. But after a few moments of allowing the tranquil and beautiful setting to calm her own nerves, Emma wondered if perhaps the head fairy was more bark than bite. Garnet delivered them in front of the first step leading up to the dais, and then moved to stand next to the wall, resembling a little red sentry.

"Welcome, Emma Swan and Killian Jones," Mother Pearl said, staring down at them from her position, not quite smiling.

Emma smiled back cautiously, and glanced briefly at Killian, who wore an expression of pleasant entertainment. She hoped she appeared to be as composed as he was.

"Thank you for your hospitality, milady." Killian spread his arms wide and pointed one boot forward before descending into a sweeping bow as sure as if he were bowing before royalty. His exaggerated gesture earned him an amused smile in return.

"You are welcome. Now, to what do we owe this pleasure?" Her smile faded; she was all business.

Killian looked back at Emma, patiently waiting for her to make her petition.

"We have come to ask your help," Emma said seriously, without dropping her gaze from the fairy's face.

"I gathered as much. Very few contain the fortitude to pass through our defenses, and those that do generally have a solid reason." She tilted her head at them, and Emma wanted to shrink beneath her steady gray-eyed examination.

"Killian has told me that you are the keeper of magic." At the fairy's nod Emma continued, "I need help getting back to my time."

Mother Pearl's eyes held interest now. "And are you from the Enchanted Forest?"

"No. The land without magic," Emma answered, keeping her voice steady.

"So you need to realm-jump into the future?" The fairy pressed her delicate hands together. "I see why you sought us out. You must know that this will be extremely difficult." Her gaze bore through Emma as if trying to ferret out a truth that Emma might be hiding.

"So I figured." Emma finally looked away from those keen gray eyes, although she could still feel their weight until the fairy turned to Killian.

"And what is your interest in Miss Swan's endeavor, Master Jones? Surely you are not attempting to realm-jump through time as well?"

"No. Miss Swan hired me merely as her guide," he answered pointedly. The fairy's eyes swept over him, her piercing gaze calculating as she paused, considering their answers.

"Very well. I will tell you what you must do." She stepped down from her bench and motioned for them to follow her through one of the doors at the back of the platform. Emma hadn't noticed them at first because of the reflection of the light all around. Garnet fell into step behind them.

They entered a small chamber, an office of sorts, with a white wooden table and matching bench. There was another door off to the side, and Emma could see that there must be several chambers tucked into the back of the building, although with the way the light entered the main hall, one would never know they existed. She speculated that this must be Mother Pearl's private residence.

There were letters and maps spread across the table, overlapping each other and resembling the desk of a military commander. _I bet she could command troops_, Emma thought, a small smile playing at her lips as she imagined an army following the petite but severe leader, white hair blowing about her face as she ordered the men to march.

"Here." Mother Pearl pulled one of the maps from the bottom of the stack. "Do you see this location?" Emma stared at the map blankly, twisting her head to Killian to see if he understood.

"Aye. We would be here." He pointed to their current location. Mother Pearl nodded and raised a brow, obviously impressed.

"Correct. And here is where you will need to go. There is a seer who lives on the edge of the forest, several days journey from here. She is a gate-keeper of sorts, the only one who can set you on the path to travel through time."

She paused a moment, her delicate fingers tapping the table top. "I would caution you though. If she puts you on the path, there is no turning back, and the journey will be dangerous, threatening your very existence." She stared at Jones deliberately, and Emma wondered if she was trying to discourage him from helping her.

_Great,_ Emma thought, just what she needed, another long, hard dangerous journey through who knew what and who knew where. She looked at Killian to find him thoughtfully stroking his chin with his hand, ignoring the fairies pointed gaze, his two day old beard rustling under his fingers as he plainly considered the map and possibly the best way to get to the seer's location.

"May I trace a likeness of this map, milady?" he asked, eyes expectant.

"Certainly." She gestured to Garnet, who had been standing near the door, and gave her instructions to bring a sheet of vellum and a charcoal stick for her guests. The fairy hurried to do her bidding.

Killian addressed Emma, "I think I can get there fastest by sea. My ship is anchored here, and we would only have to sail around this point," he pointed to an outcropping that jutted into the water, "to here. Then we could continue overland, possibly shaving at least one day off the journey than if we traveled overland the entire way."

Emma nodded, finding it hard to believe they were really going through with this, although it was true that he might decide to drop her off at the seer and let her continue on her own from that point. She sincerely hoped he would go with her, though.

Garnet returned with the requested materials, brushing her body against Jones as she leaned over to place them on the desk, earning a smirk and upturned brow from him in return. She was a pretty girl, young though, and although she couldn't have had many dealings with men, she certainly seemed to be at ease with this one. Emma wanted to punch the crimson fairy in the face.

Mother Pearl spoke, breaking through Emma's uncharitable thoughts. "You are welcome to make yourselves comfortable for another day, and then I'm afraid our hospitality will end there. We have much training in the magic arts that goes on each day, and I'll not have our routine unduly upset because of _distractions_." With that she narrowed her eyes at Killian, obviously having caught the exchange between Garnet and him.

He gave her a wide-mouthed grin. "You have been most gracious, and most kind, milady. We accept your offer of another day of rest, and will relieve you of our presence tomorrow morning," Killian said easily, answering her accusation with an inclination of his head that said he intended to behave.

"Very well. Garnet here will show you the activities around the conclave. Feel free to sit in on any of the classes, or to enjoy another dip in our pool." She dismissed the pair with a wave of her hand and sat down at the desk, shuffling through the papers to find the one she wanted.

Garnet smiled at them both, her eyes passing over Emma before remaining on Killian for a moment. She waved them forward with a flick of her wrist before hurrying them out the way they came in, her feet barely making a sound along the stone floor. They followed obediently, Killian picking up the vellum and charcoal on the way out, and Emma curious about what kinds of activities occurred at a place so isolated from human interaction.

Killian stopped her once they left the building. "I'm going back to my hut to get this map traced out. I'm confident I could make the sea-journey with little to no difficulty, but the overland journey is a bit more involved, and I don't want to leave here without a map."

Emma nodded, looking up at him with a smile.

He placed his hand on her arm and squeezed, his blue eyes intensifying as he stared down at her. "I'll find you later."

_A promise_. Emma shivered, briefly wondering if that was what he intended.

He released her arm and moved off in the direction of the guest huts, her gaze following his retreating form. _Milah, Milah, Milah, _Emma reminded herself. She couldn't get lost in those deep blue eyes; she had to remember Milah.

Shaking her head to clear her pirate's face, _no, Jones's face,_ from her mind, she hurried to catch up with the retreating red figure that drifted across the ground with quick steps.

When they had reached the clearing once again, Garnet greeted a fairy dressed all in yellow, the sunshiny color reflected in the tiny woman's buoyant face, long golden hair falling straight down to her waist. "Daisy, will you be so kind as to escort Miss Swan around the Lodge? Mother Pearl has given her permission to attend one of the classes if she'd like. There's something I need to do." Garnet lowered her lashes, allowing her eyes to trail briefly over to the guest huts, and Emma wondered exactly what it was she _needed_ to do.

"Sure. It would be my pleasure, Miss Swan." Daisy held out her tiny hand in introduction.

Emma and Daisy arrived at an open door to one of the huts. Glancing around inside, Emma saw several of the small women weaving the most intricate baskets and rugs she'd ever seen. Stepping further inside out of curiosity, she saw that the baskets exhibited several different colors, brilliant pinks and blues, greens and golds, rather than the usual brown that most homemade baskets displayed.

"How do you get so many colors out of the materials?" Emma asked.

"We use grasses, see?" The fairy picked up a handful of thin reeds. Then we dye some of them using flowers and spices or even magic in some cases. She smiled, pointing to a pile of a shimmery pink dust that Emma instantly recognized.

"Pixie dust?"

"Yes! Do you know it? It does the most wonderful things. We novices are only given a certain portion for training. Once we pass all our tests, we can become a proper member of the order and we're entrusted with a much larger amount." She flushed prettily, and Emma realized that she was very much looking forward to that day.

Allowing Daisy to lead her back into the sunshine, Emma asked, "What kind of tests do you take?"

"Well, a few of them are similar to the tests you passed when you arrived here. And then we have written exams that test our knowledge of herbal extracts, plants and flowers and such—Mother Pearl has a very extensive library of manuals we must study. And then we are tested experientially. Mother Pearl sets up scenarios that test the best way to handle a situation, sometimes it's a test involving black magic or maybe how to help a human who is in need." She inclined her head to Emma to indicate that she was one such human.

"There are different ways to handle everything. Mother Pearl's biggest concern is maintaining the integrity of magic; she thinks the misuse of magic possibly the worst evil in the world. That's the reason for all the secrecy, see? If we make magic hard to acquire, then it's less likely to fall into the wrong hands."

Emma nodded. It certainly made sense. "Don't you worry that someone determined enough to use black magic would find a way though?"

"Oh, of course. But Pearl has other methods she employs for those who are most devious."

She raised her brows and Emma wondered what those methods were.

"The Dark One exists, right? Doesn't he use black magic?"

"Oh, sure. But he really doesn't like to share all that much. So unless he's inclined to take an apprentice, which so far he doesn't seem inclined, then magic stays somewhat protected. Here we are."

She led Emma into another hut, this one filled with women doing all kinds of exercises that resembled pilates or yoga. The positions, however, made the fairies look like contortionists, and Emma doubted she'd be able to keep up in such a class, even with her regular gym work outs when she was at home.

Daisy seemed to be looking for a suitable activity for Emma. When Emma realized what she was doing, she said, "Listen, I'm still a little tired from our journey here. Do you mind if I go lie down for awhile? I really don't feel up to joining a class, although I appreciate the offer tremendously."

The yellow fairy nodded, her enthusiasm dampened a bit. "I understand. The outer defense lines are trying."

Emma chuffed.

Daisy smiled again. "It was nice to meet you. I'll see you at the dinner bell then. Bye." And with that she flitted away toward another one of the buildings.

Emma had no intention of lying down. Knocking and opening the door to Jones's hut, she intended to check how the copying was going. She was very surprised to see him sitting on his cot, comfortably slouched against the wall, a pillow under his back for support, and his hands behind his head. Garnet sat charmingly on the small stool, her own tiny feet captured between his extended legs, and laughing prettily at something he must have said. Jones glanced up at Emma, raising a brow at her interruption with an almost confrontational air to his flashing blue gaze.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't realize…" She trailed off and closed the door quickly, cheeks reddening.

Going back over to her own hut, Emma plopped down on her cot, staring at the ceiling of the comfortable little room, frustrated. Seeing all his attention trained on the saucy little woman wrenched her gut, a wave of nausea dispersing through her tightly-wound body and filling her limbs with lead. What was she doing? She knew he was a notorious flirt, knew he had every right to conduct himself anyway he saw fit. She was only here for his help to get back home. But she found herself replaying her time with him in her head, wondering if she had imagined his attentions earlier, or more likely as she suspected, perhaps he didn't take them as seriously as she did. That had to be a good thing, right?

Emma rolled over and punched her moss-filled pillow in aggravation. Then she punched it again, and again. It felt good to hit something, even if it was pointless, her pent-up frustration finally finding an outlet, albeit a small one. Tiny clouds of dust mushroomed upward with every blow, and the seams of the pillow began to bulge under her pounding fist. She stopped before she destroyed it, then fell onto her back again, blowing the hair out of her face, her hands fisting at her sides.

It had been almost a week since she'd disappeared, and she wondered what her family was doing to try and find her. She had no way to contact them, no way to let them know she was fine. Her eyes began to fill with tears, and even though she tried to brush them away, they wouldn't be dismissed, and she found herself crying again for the second time in twenty-four hours, homesickness getting the better of her. All she wanted was to bury her head in Killian's neck and breathe his clean scent, to feel his arms wrap securely around her in safety and reassurance. She wanted to hold Henry and tell him how much she loved him and how proud she was of him, to have a real conversation with her mother and father and to rock her tiny brother.

She had to get back home, she had to. And once she did, she'd hang onto Killian and never let him go.

Drying her eyes with a new determination, Emma sat up and changed into the sleeveless tunic she had seen the fairies wear for swimming. Thinking that a few laps would clear her head, she made her way out into the bright sunshine.

====o0I0o====

After Garnet had reluctantly left to attend one of her classes, Killian finished copying the map, having been extremely careful with the intricate paths that seemed to turn back on themselves several times before culminating in the seer's supposed location. He felt a little nervous undertaking the next part of the journey; the seer lived in a part of the forest with which he was unfamiliar. He could ask around in town for details about the area, hopefully finding out who lived there to see if he recognized any names. As far as he knew, there were no major towns or villages, the area never having been developed.

His work done, he thought he'd go and find Emma. She had seemed flustered when she'd walked in on his conversation with the red fairy, and he wondered if—or hoped?—she had been envious. Killian was not in the least bit interested in the red-headed fairy, but if allowing the fairy's attentions gained him a little more of Emma's notice, then he was happy to oblige. Garnet reminded him of Milah in a way, although without the cynicism and biting tongue that characterized the farmer's wife. The fairy was pretty but young, and Killian preferred a woman with a bit of experience to fuel her internal fire.

Emma blazed like an inferno, and yet she could be as cold as she was hot—one minute allowing him to comfort her, laughing at his stories, her smoky eyes dilating with desire—the next minute pushing him away, shutting him out, closing off her expression and her body. He knew she was worried about changing history, but she seemed rather devoted to her husband to resist his attentions like she had. Many a married woman would have succumbed to far less where he was concerned.

He stepped out into the waning light as dusk began to settle over the conclave. The dinner bell tolled loudly across the clearing and all the fairies stopped what they were doing and hurried to line up once again near the hut where the food was served.

He let his eyes scan the crowd until they rested on Emma, her graceful blonde head drawing his gaze like a sailor to the sea. She was standing in line smiling happily at a yellow-clad fairy and Violet, who seemed to have recovered from her run-in with the white fairy. He couldn't help but smile at Emma's easy expression and simultaneously wish she would let her guard down like that around him.

Emma turned her head as if sensing his eyes on her, capturing him with a wary gaze, her smile faltering as she watched him cross the clearing to stand at the back of the queue, only a few stragglers coming into place behind him. He didn't want to interrupt her conversation, and of course it would be bad form to cut in line.

After gathering his plate and thanking the cheerful fairy who served him, he stepped back outside where everyone had gathered to eat in small groups, sitting on the soft grass. Tinkling conversations echoed all around, and Killian searched for Emma and her two companions. He found them sitting near the pool, still talking animatedly, Emma's back to him.

He meant to traverse over to her, but was stopped by a delicate hand on his arm. Garnet stood next to him, her plate in her hand. "Care to join me, Killian?" she asked with a toss of her red mane.

"Of course, milady." Markedly hiding his disappointment at sharing his meal with Garnet rather than Emma, he inclined his head slightly and followed her to a spot near one of the huts, contentedly noting that he'd at least have a clear view of Emma's profile.

.

.

Emma was listening to Violet tell stories about how many different ways she had gotten in trouble with Mother Pearl, always on probation for something or other. Violet didn't intentionally seek out trouble, but trouble seemed to find her.

Stilling with awareness, Emma caught Jones out of the corner of her eye casually following Garnet to a spot near one of the huts. The red fairy sat down daintily on one of the small steps, Jones settling at her feet. He seemed to be enjoying himself, talking in between bites, Garnet's expression rapt on whatever he was saying.

Emma watched him chuckle at something the fairy said, and he raised his head from his plate. His blue eyes met her green in an electric current that sparked across the expanse, stripping her of any determination to keep him at arms length. His smile dropped, face serious and intent, his hand poised above his plate in mid-bite, frozen in time. _I want you_. She could read the words in his steady gaze as sure as if he'd whispered them in her ear. The conversations, the fairies, even the lodge itself all faded away, those three tiny words echoing loudly through the still air.

Even if she would have had nerves of steel, which she did under most circumstances, she wouldn't have been able to stop the flush that crept up her body, slowly, painfully, the heat of his penetrating stare reading everything she wished she could hide. Her willpower always failed her when it came to him. He could reduce her to putty with a word or with a look; he'd always been able to.

She quickly turned away from him, angling her body toward her small circle of friends, attempting to break the powerful allure he had on her, trying to keep focused on whatever it was Daisy was now saying, and failing miserably.

Although she didn't raise her head in his direction again, she felt prickles dance across her skin every time his trenchant gaze settled on her.

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**Review?**


	7. Answers

**Hi guys, it looks like weekly updates for awhile until life settles down a bit. Thanks for sticking with me!**

**Beta-read by the ingenious Revenessa!**

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Chapter 7: Answers

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Emma kept her head bent in the water, turning to the side when she needed a breath, her arms lifting and falling in the rhythmic pace that marked her freestyle stroke. It had always been her favorite—besides being a good workout, the sound of her arms lightly tapping the water and the gentle pop of the waves around her ears created a small cocoon that blocked out the rest of the world and allowed Emma to calm her mind and retreat from over-stimulation.

That's what she felt. Over-stimulated. Jones brought up so many feelings, longing being the most prominent one, especially when he was being charming or funny, or when attending to her needs. She had stopped herself from falling in his arms more times than she could count. But at least she had stopped herself. It was easiest if she thought of him as a different person altogether, sharing her husband's face like a twin. But a twin usually had a different personality, so when her guard was down, she'd forget she wasn't talking to _her_ Killian. She hadn't been very good at keeping them separated before, but she hoped that was only because of fatigue, from which she was finally recovering.

_Slap_… _Slap.._. _Slap_. Her arms kept working, her head turning to the side for a breath every two strokes instead of four as she became winded.

Her gnawing hunger had finally been sated by an extra portion at dinner that evening, which had started out in delightful conversation, until she had noticed Jones with Garnet. Her new friends Violet and Daisy had sensed the change in her mood and she thought she saw them exchange a knowing glance, hoping they hadn't thought her sudden quietness was because of anything they'd said. They had left her to herself when the meal was over, but she'd find them to apologize before she left in the morning.

Rolling to her back to catch her breath, she continued doing laps in a lazy backstroke, watching as the stars peeked out one by one in the patterns that marked their celestial dance, the beautiful night unfolding all around her. The feel of the warm water as it caressed her skin wiped away the last traces of worry about Jones's dalliance and lessened the sting of her homesickness.

Emma found sleep easily that night.

====o0I0o====

Sometime when the moon was at its zenith, the light streaming through the tiny window above her bed, Emma awakened abruptly to the sound of the door scraping across the floor. She sat up quickly, her eyes trained on the source of the sound.

Her mouth opened in surprise as the white fairy glided in, her silver hair floating gently around her shoulders. Mother Pearl spoke quietly, "Good, you're up. Come with me."

_I am now_, Emma thought acerbically, but there was no room for argument, so Emma put on the leather-like slippers she'd been given with her clothing before following the small woman out the door.

"Where are we going?" Emma asked after the scampering fairy, amazed at how agile she moved despite her age.

Mother Pearl didn't answer, but led her into the forest beyond the huts, the breath-taking scenery glistening in the moonlight. Tiny creatures scampered here and there; the forest felt alive, each pore striving for notice and recognition from the two women who walked along its paths.

Pearl led them around the back of the cathedral-like building they'd been in before, entering through a back door into a tiny room barely big enough for four people, and Emma had to duck her head to keep from hitting it on the casing. When Pearl closed the door behind her, a momentary feeling of claustrophobia seized Emma's mind.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, trying not to let the feeling of panic seep into her question.

The white fairy must have heard it anyway, since she responded, "I mean you no harm, Miss Swan. I'm merely looking for answers."

Emma studied the small woman for a long moment; the fairy was telling the truth. Relaxing just a little, Emma looked around the tiny room. In the middle of the floor sat a wide crystal basin flanked by two lighted pillar candles. In two of the four corners sat small braziers containing a couple of pieces of charcoal each. There were no windows; the candles provided the only light. Pearl sat down on one side of the basin and motioned for Emma to sit across from her.

The basin was filled with water, a thin band of surface tension keeping it from spilling over the edge. The crystal and the water faded into one in the low light, giving it the appearance of a strangely shaped bubble floating above the floor. Pearl pulled some herbs out of a small satchel at her side and placed a handful each in the two braziers behind her, lighting the charcoal with one of the candles. A pungent odor unfamiliar to Emma soon encased the tiny room, the fumes strong enough to make her head spin, as though she'd been out drinking all night.

The white fairy's gray eyes stared into Emma's for a long moment before she spoke. "Stare into the water, Miss Swan. Try to clear your mind."

Emma peered into the water as she was told and found it hard to think clearly at all, wondering briefly what she was doing there. Other thoughts swirled and darted, but none demanded her attention, winking in and out of consciousness without rhyme or reason.

Mother Pearl began chanting, a low tone issuing out of her mouth in a constant stream of sound that echoed off the walls, curling in and around Emma's thoughts, the mantra and her mind twining into a single thread of simple awareness. The candlelight cast eerie shadows on the wall and low ceiling, giving the room an underwater feel, and she felt as though she were encapsulated in an air bubble, floating in an endless sea of thought and muffled sound.

"Who are you?" the fairy asked loudly and sternly.

"Emma Swan Jones," some part of her answered, although she felt very strangely detached.

"Why are you here?"

"To find my way back home."

"Who are you?" louder this time.

"An orphan. A mother. A wife."

"Who sent you?"

"I don't know."

"What is your intention regarding the current timeline?"

"To preserve it."

Mother Pearl stood abruptly, throwing open the door. A gentle breeze swept through the room, clearing the fumes still pouring from the herbs in the braziers. She offered Emma her hand, pulling her up with an ease that belied her years and leading her outside before speaking. Emma took several gulps of the fresh air and her mind began to clear.

"I am satisfied that your intentions are true. I will provide you with a couple of items before you leave here." The fairy walked around to another door, leading Emma into her office before going over to a small basket sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. She pulled out a knife and a translucent rock about the size of a silver dollar.

She handed Emma the compact little knife first. "The blade is made from the tooth of a vile creature known as a Balgienit. No substance in existence is sharper." Emma pulled the knife out of its sheath, noting the comfortable weight of it in her hand. It was shaped like a two-edged dagger, mostly cream colored with a few brown spots, and it did in fact resemble an actual tooth. The edges looked as wicked as razors, and Emma shuddered to think of the damage it could do.

"Do not lose it. You will need to keep it with you if you are going to be successful in your quest to unlock the door of time."

"What do you mean, 'unlock the door of time'?" Emma said gruffly, her voice still affected by the smoke from the herbs.

"You will know when you need to. The seer can set you on your quest, but there are several of us who guard the path of time. It is as powerful as magic, and can be misused just as easily." Her gray gaze settled over Emma pointedly, and Emma wondered what she thought Emma could possibly do to misuse time.

Mother Pearl placed the cool stone in Emma's palm. "This is a precious opal. If you offer it to the seer, she will know you have my blessing and will allow you entrance. Without it, she will turn you away, and your quest is lost."

The smooth stone sat in her hand with a substantial weight that was incongruous to its size. It was the color of the moon with veins of cerulean and amber forging glittering paths through the cool hardness. Emma realized then that if she hadn't answered Mother Pearl's questions to her satisfaction, Emma would be stuck in this time for the rest of her life. A part of her was furious that the fairy would have let them leave with only a map and no way to succeed, and another part of her was grateful that her own intentions were pure.

Emma held up the knife and smooth stone in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Mother."

The white fairy covered Emma's hands with her own, the skin as warm and soft as any grandmother's, her gray gaze settling over Emma sincerely for the first time since she'd met the formidable Mother Pearl. "Go, child. And may time be on your side." There was a gentle urgency in her words.

Emma nearly smiled at the cliché, but didn't when she saw the seriousness of the elderly woman's expression, a shiver shimmying down her spine instead.

Perhaps the blessing wasn't amiss.

====o0I0o====

The next morning, after several cheerful goodbyes, Killian and Emma made their way back out of the forest along the same path they had come in, the trip taking about half as much time, Killian duly though gratefully noted. Emma had kept quiet the entire trip. Every time he tried to strike up a conversation, she gave one word answers until he had finally given up and left her alone with her thoughts. He had heard her door open the night before, and a few words exchanged, but by the time he had gone to his own door to peer out, Emma's was closed again and he could only assume she had gone back to sleep. He had questioned her about it, but she said nothing had happened, although it was obvious to him that something had.

The last time they had actually spoken more than a couple of words to each other was before their meeting with the White Fairy, and whether Emma would admit it or not, he knew that his time spent with Garnet had affected her in at least some small way. That knowledge sent a ping of satisfaction bouncing through him like a flat pebble dancing across the surface of a still pond, and he had allowed that satisfied bounce to lighten his step throughout a good portion of their hike.

Having finally reached the outskirts of the town square, Killian stopped Emma with a hand on her elbow, hoping to break her from her reverie. "You'll want another change of clothes for the journey… not that I mind what you're wearing, lass." He let one corner of his mouth raise into a half-smirk and let his eyes travel over her thin linen tunic, hoping to needle a smile out of her.

She looked up at him with a confused expression, and he could tell she hadn't fully registered what he'd said. Touching her arm lightly, he asked, "Might you consider leather? It would be more protective in case we encounter anything…" He trailed off, letting his eyes drift back to the path they'd just left. He loved a sexy lass decked out in leather, but he'd keep that to himself, using their quest as an excuse, in case Swan went all cold and rigid on him again.

Distracted but catching his meaning, she said, "Oh. Right. Clothes… Uh, I don't have anymore money." She kept her eyes on the busy square, interestedly watching several of the different peddlers hawk their wares from their carts.

"Come with me." He moved his hand to her lower back and led her to a small shop along one edge of the main square. People were everywhere, milling about, busy going in and out of shops, carrying baskets, chatting with neighbors. They passed a cart filled with chickens and a few goats tied to the side of it, her nose wrinkling at the thick smell of the animals. He glanced at her, a ready quip on his tongue, but restrained himself when he saw her quizzical and almost dazed expression. Looking at her as if seeing her for the first time, he could clearly recognize that she didn't belong there, or _then_ as the case seemed to be.

They walked in the door of the familiar shop and he greeted the owner. "Greetings, Master Casey. We require your assistance this fine day." Smiling easily, he shook the honest owner's hand.

"Ah, Mr. Jones. Nice to see you again. And who is the lovely lady in attendance?" Casey's trained eye traveled over Emma, Killian noticing how the portly man started in surprise at her exceptional beauty.

"Mr. Casey, may I present Miss Swan." Killian gently nudged her forward.

She offered her hand to Casey and smiled pleasantly at him. "I need to purchase some clothing." Then cutting her eyes to Killian, her smile altered to include a hint of mischief. "Leather."

Killian's wide grin answered hers in kind, and he winked at her knowing look, peculiarly excited to see her dressed in his favorite type of clothing.

"Right this way, Miss." Casey turned and walked toward the back of the small shop, Emma following closely behind.

Killian glanced around for a moment, trying to decide if he needed anything else while he was there, when he caught sight of a familiar head poking in through the open shop door before abruptly turning back toward the crowds.

"I'll be right back," he said loudly before following the retreating figure.

.

.

Emma had been amazed at the number of goods in the shop when they had walked in. There were pots and pans and various house-wares, clothes, shoes, knives, furniture. _Everything but the kitchen sink_, Emma thought dryly, but only because plumbing hadn't been invented yet.

Mr. Casey was sifting through a large stack of leather pants at the moment, while Emma thumbed through different items, not recognizing several of them.

"What kind of shop is this?" she asked, wondering how he came by so many different things.

"Resale," he answered simply. "Ah, here we are. I think these will do." He pulled a pair out of the stack and handed them to her.

The brown leather was worn in spots, but thick and serviceable. And Jones was right; these would offer more protection from the elements than even her favorite blue jeans.

Mr. Casey continued through another stack, this time of white shirts and then vests. He handed them both to Emma. "Would you like to try them on first?"

"I suppose, thank you."

He led her to a small curtain nailed to the ceiling that concealed one corner of the shop. She pulled it back and tried on the leather pants, surprised at how well he had judged her size. They were incredibly soft to the touch with tiny lines forming creases, and although somewhat snug, they stretched with her body when she bent into a squat to make sure she'd have plenty of room to move in them. The shirt was open at the neck and billowy, but the long fitted vest held the smooth cloth against her skin, leaving only her sleeves looking voluminous. _Killian would just love this!_ She allowed a large grin to animate her face at the thought of his reaction before a pang of sorrow knifed through her heart. She'd worn his pirate outfit before to satisfy his own fantasies, but his was always a little big, not that he had minded his own shirt falling off her shoulders. She swallowed thickly as a wave of loneliness washed over her.

She dressed back in the loose linen breeches and tunic, handing the clothing back to Mr. Casey. "I think these will do fine." She walked over to the door to see if she could find Jones. What she saw made her heart skip a beat.

.

.

Killian stepped out into the square, leaving Emma to her shopping, the sun having withdrawn behind a bank of clouds and washing everything in drab tones of gray. He walked to the edge of the building and was roughly pulled into a tiny alleyway separating the close structures, and then into the very soft and willing arms of Milah.

"I missed you," she breathed into his neck.

"Did you now?" He pulled back from her embrace, cautiously glancing from left to right to make sure Emma hadn't followed him, before looking down into her desire-filled dark eyes.

She frowned in disappointment and then narrowed her eyes slightly, smiling impishly. "That's a nice look. What'd you do, rob a peasant?"

He cocked a brow at her and shot back, "Well, you know, the life of a pirate can be so dreary. I thought I'd try your lot on for size."

She widened her eyes at the barb and then canted back in challenge, "And how's that working out?"

He lowered his voice, husky with pent-up desire—desire that wasn't for Milah, but at least she wanted him. "So far it's gained me the attentions of a certain dark-haired beauty," he flirted, gazing at her underneath his lashes.

"Has it now?" She raised up on her toes, pressing her yielding curves along the length of his body, his loose linen clothing offering no buffer between them.

"You tell me." His body responded accordingly with a flush of heat, and he dipped his head to capture her mouth.

She pulled back from him, anger instantly coloring her skin, her expression resembling a caged cat. "You tell me what you're doing with that woman," she said sharply, and pointed back toward the shop where he'd left Emma.

He stepped away from her, the air cooling the space between them that moments before had been charged with heat and desire. He shrugged. "Spying on me? Jealousy becomes you, darling."

She placed both hands on his chest and gave him a shove before stalking back toward the throngs of people.

Quickly catching up to her, he grabbed her arm to stop her retreat, turning her toward him in a fluid motion. "What has you so riled? You know who and what I am," he asked her in an almost mocking tone.

Her gaze fell to her feet and her anger metamorphosed into doubt. Voice lowering, she asked, "So this… you and I… this isn't something special to you? Something different?"

He shrugged, not really wanting to engage this conversation at present, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking. "It's amusing."

She stamped her foot and jutted her chin forward, and he could see desire and frustration, longing and resentment stalk across her features single-file, as bold as soldiers on their way to battle. "Damn you, Killian Jones," she said in a rough whisper not quite loud enough to draw attention to them.

"You know you love it." He nodded at her once, challenging her, baiting her, his stance clearly demanding: _Am I who you want? or are you just looking for a way out?_

He didn't get an answer. Instead, she threw her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He loved the way she kissed—it was pure passion, raw and feral. She put everything she had, everything she wanted to run from into her soft wet kisses, as though her spirit was slowly dying and he was her only link to life. Breathless, he leaned his forehead against hers, and then remembered where they were. He removed her hands from the back of his neck and put some space between them.

"When can I see you?" she asked, chest heaving as she caught her breath.

He paused, inhaling deeply and taking his time before answering. "I'm not sure. The woman you saw hired me to assist her in getting to another realm." He looked toward the shop and saw Emma standing in the doorway, a pained look pinching her features. His gaze locked on the lass's stormy green eyes, watching him with yearning and… lust, he'd recognize lust anywhere. Startled by the heat in the eye contact, he lifted his brows in surprise, his lips quirking in hopeful anticipation.

He glanced back to Milah and saw her staring at Emma, dark eyes narrowed, chin down like a bull ready to charge. Milah definitely considered Emma a foe. And Emma? Emma was now regarding the black haired woman with a certain morbid curiosity. Killian suddenly found himself wishing he was anywhere but there.

Milah pointedly grabbed him by the loose collar of his shirt and kissed him again, cold and calculating, and he knew without a doubt that she was staking a claim on him for Emma's enlightenment. She broke the kiss and said breathily, "I have to get back to Rumple. Find me when you're done with _her_." She inclined her head toward the shop door with a pretty toss of her long tresses, not bothering to look in Emma's direction.

"Alright then, off with you, love." He swatted her bottom as she departed, and she smiled coyly over her shoulder. He watched the strong line of her back as she glided across the cobblestones, attempting to tease him with every step.

This time though, the sway of her hips didn't affect him nearly as strongly as it usually did.

* * *

**Review?**


	8. The Jolly Roger

**Beta-read by the thoughtful Revenessa. Thank you all so much for reading-I'm blown away by the number of followers. ;D**

* * *

Chapter 8: The Jolly Roger

* * *

Emma leaned against the railing of the Jolly Roger, allowing the bustling harbor sounds to dissolve in her ears, arms resting comfortably as she gazed out over the water and horizon, like she'd done countless times with _her_ Killian. They had spent many evenings after a light supper watching the sunset from that same rail, his body pressed up against her back, arms locked around her waist, lending her his warmth while they admired the majesty of colors that played across the sky in variations of red, gold and purple, no question in either of their minds as to why those were the colors of kings. The sunset over this ocean was no different from her own back in Maine, the familiarity of it offering some kind of consolation to the roiling emotions threatening her resolve.

As soon as they had arrived at his ship, Jones had gone straightaway into pirate captain mode, introducing Emma briefly to the crew before bustling and ordering them about, leaving her to herself. He was so confident and self-assured, a true sailor at heart; she could see his love for his work in every stride across the deck, in every order he gave the crew. She envied him. He knew who he was and where he belonged; it had taken her until she was nearly thirty to find that.

Emma hadn't shared her midnight meeting with the white fairy with Jones yet. For the most part, she'd been avoiding him, her emotions still raw from her conflicted reactions to him, one minute successfully keeping herself detached, the next falling in love with him all over again. It was exhausting having to keep herself on guard all the time.

And Milah. Killian had never told her much about the dark-haired beauty whose shapely figure had barely been concealed beneath her drab dress. They never had those kinds of conversations, about past loves, and she had to admit she was extremely curious about the woman who had incited her man to such a passion that he would devote three hundred years of his life to revenge.

Yes, Milah must be very special indeed. Emma had witnessed their kiss, unable to tear her eyes away from the torturous moment holding her captive like an insect caught in amber, trapped by an acute mix of grim interest and unabashed jealousy. She shouldn't be angry with him for following his own storyline, but some small part of her was. Some part of her wanted to claw the other woman's eyes out and stake her own claim on her handsome pirate, turning him in an instant with true love's kiss, even if she was three hundred years too early, even if he wasn't hers yet, to hell with history.

Emma touched her cheek, feeling his beard scrape along her own face the same way his cheek had brushed across Milah's, lust for his touch springing up like new growth on plants who find themselves suddenly thrust in the sunshine after months of indirect light. When he loved, it was possession, body and soul, and seeing him with Milah had been no less agonizing than enduring the fairies' defense lines.

And those eyes. Milah's smoldering eyes had glared at Emma with knowing and passion and a clear message that said, _hands off_. Milah must be quite possessive as well, a good thing considering the role she had to play in his life. Emma had every intention of keeping her hands off Jones, and in her weak moments, she'd only have to conjure an image of those insolent and confrontational eyes.

When the sun had finished it's descent in the sky, Emma made her way to the captain's cabin to find Jones, finally in control of her emotions and ready to face him. She tentatively knocked at his open door.

He had already changed into his favorite leather pants and blousy shirt, and was sitting at his cluttered table, covered in papers and maps, rubbing the back of his neck and going over some kind of list with Mr. Smee. She was surprised to see how little his cabin had changed in all those years. It was still impeccably clean and neat, his brother's sextant and compass were still proudly displayed on the same shelf; the only real difference was that in the future, other small acquisitions from his travels would be added to his shelves, but other than that, the room felt like home, and him. She breathed a sigh of resignation and intentionally pushed the thoughts of all that had occurred in that cabin from her mind, tamping them down firmly the way a child buries a box he doesn't intend to resurrect for years.

"Ah, Swan, we could use the interruption. Please, come in." He glanced back at Smee, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. Mr. Smee gave her a nervous smile as he left the room, his red hat clutched between his hands.

"We need to talk," she said seriously.

A smirk threatened the corners of his mouth and his eyes glinted with humor. "Ill-favored words out of a woman's mouth. Generally try to avoid them as often as possible. But seeing as you and I are colleagues, I guess you're right. We do need to talk." He gestured to the edge of his bed, the only other available seating in the tidy cabin.

He was teasing her; she had seen the obvious pleasure that flashed across his face when she had entered, giving his beautiful blue eyes a boyish cast. "Last night I met with Mother Pearl."

He raised one brow in interest, nodding in understanding. "Indeed. And what did the menacing sprite have to say?" He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his middle, stretching his legs out and crossing his feet at the ankles to get comfortable.

"She drugged me and asked me who I was." He bolted in surprise from his relaxed posture, leaning forward abruptly, body stilling and all ears on what she was about to say. "I had no choice but to tell her the truth, and she must have been satisfied because she gave me these." She held out the dagger and the opal for his inspection.

He eyed her narrowly as though assuring himself that she was alright, then took the items, turning the polished stone in every direction as he studied it. "This is worth a small fortune. Did she tell you what it was for?" He shook his head and a wry smile crossed his face.

"Only that I was to give it to the seer if I wanted her to allow me entrance to my quest."

"Hmmm… And the dagger?" His brows raised in question.

"That it's made from the tooth of some kind of beast and is the sharpest material in existence. She said I'd need to keep it with me at all times if I wanted to be successful."

He pulled the dagger out of its sheath, running his finger expertly over the blade. "That's a wicked edge. Be a handy little tool in a knife fight." He paused a moment, thinking. "I wonder what she would have done if you'd told her something she hadn't wanted to hear?"

"I don't know, but the thought crossed my mind. I would have hated to make it all the way to the seer only to be turned away because I didn't have the appropriate payment." She could see that he had come to the same conclusion when his features darkened perceptibly.

He handed the items back to her. "Keep these safe, lass. You'll be living with a bunch of pirates for the next couple of days. And although I can vouch for the honesty of Mr. Smee and Jamison since I've known them longest, I can't be entirely sure about the rest. No one would intentionally harm you on this ship, but I wouldn't put them to the test of having to restrain themselves from such a tasty morsel."

His eyes held hers for a long moment, intense and searching. He wasn't only talking about the opal, and she smiled in understanding. "Got it."

He nodded once. "How do you like your accommodations?"

Emma had been given Mr. Smee's quarters for the duration of her stay, grateful to have a room to herself, knowing she couldn't handle staying with Jones, even if they did have separate beds. Smee's room was smaller than the captain's, but neat and tidy as expected. Killian never tolerated a mess on his ship.

"They're fine, thank you. I appreciate not having to bunk with the rest of the crew." She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the thought of sharing a room with twenty unwashed men.

"A beautiful lass like you? I don't think they could handle it." His eyes held mischief and the assurance that he could in fact _handle it, _and would love nothing more than the opportunity. Her heartbeat quickened as she held his spirited gaze for a moment before unwillingly tearing her eyes from his, remembering their words to each other just before their first very passionate kiss.

Staring at the floorboards, she saw him stand out of the corner of her eye. "Come then, we'll go and see what Jamison has prepared for supper."

He stepped back so she could lead the way, placing his hand on her lower back like he had so many times before, the comfortable weight speaking of the all-encompassing possession only he was capable of.

====o0I0o====

Killian and Emma sat down to a wonderful meal prepared by Jamison, the chief cook. Mr. Smee and Jamison had both joined their small table, sharing the meal in friendly conversation, while the rest of the crew enjoyed their last night on shore before they set sail at dawn the following morning.

Jamison had prepared spicy meat pasties with a delicate buttery crust served alongside a mug of ale. Emma found it filling and delicious, especially after the lighter fare of the fairies.

Of all the crew she'd met so far, Jamison was her favorite. He reminded her of an older version of David, not only in stature with his blond hair and light blue eyes, but also with his stoic and protective demeanor. He wore a long mustache that drooped on either side of his mouth, giving him the look of a western cowboy more than a pirate. He had a mild Scottish accent that commanded respect as sure as Jones did, and Emma found herself instantly at ease with him.

"So how'd you meet our captain, Miss Swan?" Mr. Smee asked over his mug, small eyes intent with curiosity.

"I met him in the tavern and hired him to help me get back to my realm." She was resting her forearms on the table and took another sip of ale, enjoying the warmth spreading through her limbs as the alcohol slid down her throat. The informal meal and the relaxed conversation eased the restraint she usually exercised when conversing with new people.

"Oh, from another realm are ye?" Jamison inquired. Both his brows edged up toward his receding hairline, interested. "Which one?"

Emma had already decided not to tell anyone about being from the future. She cut her eyes to Jones, who smiled reassuringly, letting her know with just a glance that the older man was trustworthy. "The land without magic."

Jamison studied her a moment, rubbing his chin. "Didna know such a place existed. Och weel, the cap'n here is sure to find a way to get ye home. Not to worrit, lass." He patted her hand companionably, his confidence in Jones bolstering her own, and the vibrating burr of his accent drew a smile from her.

Placing both hands on the table, Emma said, "Alright, guys, I have a question." Emma had been waiting for an opportune time to ask this one since the day after she'd met Jones, when she realized she'd be able to pick his brain for all the memories her husband had either forgotten or had chosen to omit.

Three pairs of inquisitive eyes turned on her, leaving Emma feeling self-conscious and nearly ridiculous for the question she was about to ask.

"So… what kind of pirates are you?" Her question was met with blank stares all around, so she clarified, "I mean, what kind of jobs…er… activities… do you do?"

Emma had wondered forever what Killian actually did at that time in his life. He was a good storyteller, able to invent what he couldn't remember, but his stories didn't include particulars about his line of work, and he always appeared a little embarrassed about his past, so she hadn't pressed him. She had learned to accept him as he was, to see him as the man he wanted to be. But something about Jones made her think that he wasn't the villain _her_ Killian had always alluded to.

The three men looked back and forth at each other for a moment, Jones leaning back in his chair comfortably and taking a sip of his ale before answering, "We steal from those who are rich enough not to notice the loss of their small fortunes, or from those who acquire their wealth by cheating others."

Her eyes widened in surprise, taking in his candid expression. "That's noble of you."

He chuckled sarcastically. "Noble would be to return some of the money to those who were cheated out of it. I'm not so good as that." He scratched at his ear, the endearing gesture indicating he was uncomfortable. "We also do a bit of smuggling here and there… for a price of course." He smirked at her, regaining his composure.

She loved how quickly he could go from flustered to confident in the blink of an eye. "What kinds of items?"

"Mostly liquor and weapons between the kingdoms, no slaves, and no coastal villages. Mainly, it's all about being in the right place at the right time, and making sure our reputation precedes us." He waggled his brows at Emma, and she could just imagine the type of reputation he was referring to.

"Cap'n, let me tell 'er about the time at King John's ball, remember?"

Killian smiled and nodded his head, resting his arm on the table as he continued sipping his ale. Emma grinned back at him, all ears, intent on learning whatever she could about her true love.

"Cap'n here had quite the stash of various royal navy uniforms, havin' acquired 'em in raids here and there. He'd put on the uniform of one of the neighborin' kingdoms and attend a ball, dressed all prim and pressed like royalty. He'd tell the lassies he was the nephew of Aunt Mathilda, who no one ever seemed to know or care to know especially once they'd seen his purty face. All they wanted was a dance with the dashin' seaman. They had no idea he had ev'ry intention of robbin' 'em blind. They wouldna even realize he was the one who'd stolen their jewels, so enchanted by his charm." Jamison fluttered his eyelashes and waved a handkerchief in front of his mouth, imitating the snickering of said ladies.

Killian chuffed, and Emma caught him watching her beneath his lashes, eyes alight with playfulness at the memory.

"Weel, one day he went to a ball in honor of King John's eldest daughter. She must've watched the cap'n for a long time before finally makin' her way ov'r to him. He of course had to ask her to dance, else risk royal ire. I was a ways off, keepin' a careful eye for when he'd need to make his retreat, or at the very least hand off the bejeweled necklace sittin' in his pocket, when I saw 'em leave the dance floor and take the air on one of the open terraces. Not five minutes la'er, we hear her screaming 'Guards!' at the top of her lungs. The music stopped and silence filled the ballroom, the guards bumblin' from their stations, runnin' out of the room as fast as their drunken legs could manage," he lowered his voice and winked conspiratorially, "everyone knows the guards sip at the ceremonial wine on those nights. That was our cue to leave, quiet like, and meet the cap'n back at the ship. We pulled anchor and lit out of there before the guards even knew which direction to run."

"What happened?" She looked to Killian who lowered his head in mirth, but had enough control over himself to answer the question.

"She propositioned me! The minx cuddled up close to my ear, pulled the necklace out of my pocket and boldly told me that I could meet her back in her chambers and claim her maidenhead before her hastily arranged marriage, or she'd call the guards. I may not have had a woman in a while, but I wasn't that desperate. Better to risk a hand than my manhood." He raised his eyebrows at Emma and held up both hands while looking down to indicate all parts were indeed intact.

The small room echoed the sound of their laughter and Emma gave a sidelong glance at her pirate, unable to curb the pleasure that washed over her at the thought of Killian possibly having less experience with women than he often insinuated.

A comfortable silence descended over everyone.

Finishing off her ale with a tilt of her head, Emma stood. "Well, fellas, I'm off for the night. Thanks for the delightful evening." She touched Jamison on the hand again. "And for the delicious supper." He grinned widely and patted her arm lightly with his other hand and she left the table to a chorus of "G'night, lass".

.

.

Killian watched her leave, wishing with all his heart that his hand had been the last she'd touched before bed. Smee followed soon after, leaving Jamison to refill both their mugs and settle in for a conversation like they had on many a night. Jamison had been the cook on the Jolly Roger since Liam, and his stable presence had kept Killian sane on a number of occasions when grief would have driven him mad.

"So, Jamison, I can see something's on your mind. Pray tell what it is." Killian took another sip of his ale, watching his friend with curiosity, the only sound the creaking of the wood as the ship floated in the harbor.

Jamison paused a moment, fixing Killian with a pragmatic stare. "She's lovely, sir. By far my favorite."

Killian liked that Jamison was always honest, regardless of the fact that Killian was his superior. "Favorite? Why that's a high honor coming from you. You generally dislike women, or so I thought," he snickered.

"Not so, Cap'n; only the ones you seem to attract. But she's a rare one indeed. Make a good wife, I daresay." Jamison was struggling to keep his face blank, and he couldn't hide the amusement in his clear blue eyes nor keep his mustache from twitching.

Killian nearly spit out his last sip of ale. "Wife? Who said anything about a wife?"

"Well, ye can't be piratin' forever, sir. Best to find you a little lassie and settle down somewhere, have a couple of bairns, live an honest life, or at least more of one. The smugglin' I think is the least dangerous of your occupations tha'd support a woman." His eyes looked away, fingers smoothing his long mustache, as though he were trying to come up with suitable jobs for an ex-pirate.

Killian rubbed the back of his neck, the thought of a life with Miss Swan had crossed his mind more than once if he were honest. "I never thought I'd see the day you'd encourage a different line of work." Jamison had been one of his biggest supporters when he'd taken over the ship after Liam's death. He'd helped Killian keep the men in line when they'd threatened mutiny more than once.

"It's only that I want to see ye happy. And I can see how ye look at the lass, and how she looks at you," he said pointedly.

Killian perked up at that bit of information. "I was hoping that wasn't wishful thinking on my part."

"Och, no. The lassie is definitely interested." He smiled knowingly, burying a large grin in his mug.

"Is that so?" Killian said almost to himself, sitting back a little and resting his arm on the back of his chair as he thought about Emma's beautiful green eyes—eyes that held interest and longing, courage and intelligence, eyes that promised mischief and fun…

"Aye… And you cap'n? Might ye be interested in somethin' more… permanent?"

He didn't answer right away, and when he did, it was almost inaudible. "I might." He looked in the direction of the first mate's cabin, knowing full well that their quest could fail and Swan… Emma… would be left here in his time for the rest of their lives. He stood up and wished his old friend a good night, who gave him a reassuring nod in return before tending to the clean-up.

====o0I0o====

Emma had just been about to slip off the loose linen pants and snuggle into the cloth hammock when she heard a soft knock at the door. It had to be Jones. "Yes?"

"Just checking to see that you have everything you require," he said through the paneled door.

She rose and partially opened the door, actively attempting to keep her wits about her when she saw him. His hair was mussed; he must've run his fingers through it, and she had the impression he knew exactly what he was doing to her. Schooling her expression, she said professionally, "I do. Thanks for your concern."

"If you think of anything, you know where I'll be." His voice sounded almost gruff, and he ducked his head as if to leave, his blue eyes dark and intense in the low light of the passageway, the intimate camaraderie of the meal still present between them.

A lock of hair fell over one eye and she longed to reach up and brush it away. "Do you have any idea how long we'll be at sea?" She was still holding on to the door, everything in her aching to drag him into the cabin, to spend the next few hours familiarizing herself with the differences between his body now and his body in the future.

He leaned against the door frame, resting one of his hands above his head. The movement tightened his shirt across his shoulders and gave her an even better view of his bared chest through the open neckline.

"Our trip shouldn't be a long one, a couple of days at most, and then you'll have me all to yourself, Swan." He smirked playfully and edged himself closer to her, the heat radiating from him causing her breath to catch.

"Yeah, I bet you'd like nothing more," she said in a throaty whisper, trying not to stare at his full mouth.

His grin widened and he watched her closely, his voice thick and low and his breath shallower than a moment before. "Know so much about my preferences, love? I can't wait to investigate your familiarity." He popped the last syllable, his words holding anticipation, blue eyes drifting lazily to her mouth.

Her heart skipped a beat at the barely concealed invitation—she wasn't the only one who was an open book—and she again found herself fighting the urge to grab the edges of his shirt and pull him into her.

_What am I doing?_ She had to stop this before it went any further. She inhaled deeply with the intent to clear her head, but her voice betrayed her with its husky tone. "Goodnight, Captain Jones."

She slowly closed the door, forcing him to move backward into the passageway, then leaned her forehead against the door, the cool wood soothing her flushed face, and heard a very quiet, "Goodnight, Miss Swan."

This was going to be a long trip.

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**Review?**


	9. Of That Which Jealousy Destroys

**Wow! I can't believe the response-thanks so much, guys. I usually respond to my reviews individually, but to my guest Nise-no, I don't plan on popping into the future with Hook and Henry anytime soon, although that could change... I'm always open to suggestions!-DD**

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Chapter 9: Of that which Jealousy Destroys

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A broad yawn stretched the muscles in Emma's face and neck and she sank back into her hammock, lazily waking to the gentle rolling of the deck beneath her, the sunlight streaming through the single porthole, heralding a new day. Placing her feet on the floor, she made her way to the tiny window, the picturesque ocean staring back at her in azure magnificence, its immensity offering a sense of peacefulness that said everything was going to be okay. She removed her loose linen clothing, using one corner of her shirt to briskly rub her face, bringing life back into her tired skin, and she laid out the fairy garb with the intention of allowing it to air out before packing it for the overland trip.

Getting into the spirit of being aboard a pirate ship, she shimmied into her leather pants, their cool snugness like a caress around her bare legs. After donning her shirt, she fastened the last of the buttons on her vest, running her hands down her torso to smooth it out, and tugged at the lacy cuffs on each of her wrists. She felt like she'd win a Halloween costume contest hands down and wished she had a mirror to take in the full effect, all while desperately trying not to imagine Jones's reaction to her changed attire.

Closing the door behind her, she made her way to the galley to see about breakfast. Jamison was standing in front of a large pot, stirring a fragrant-smelling broth, sweat beading on his brow from the heat collected in the small room.

"Good morning, Jamison," she greeted with a large smile.

He gave her a big and cheerful grin in response, reminding her of David after he'd just received good news. "Ah, lass, nice to see ye up and aboot. Will ye be wantin' somethin' to eat?"

"Yeah, thanks. Have we been at sea for long?" She sat down at one of the few tables in front of the tiny kitchen area, watching as he added a couple of pinches of something to the large pot before setting down his spoon and leaning against a wooden cutting board.

"No, not terribly long. Dawn was a coupl' hours past. The deckhands have all ea'en and made their way to mind the riggin'. Ye'll no' be disturbed at yer breakfast." He smiled at her, twisting his lean body away from the pot to put a fresh crust of bread and a chunk of cheese on a plate before handing it to Emma along with a mug of ale.

The ale was sweeter than the one she'd had the night before, with a pleasant fruity note. "Jamison, this is wonderful. Did you brew it yourself?"

"Aye." He flushed with pride, wiping at his brow with a corner of his apron.

She spoke companionably with Jamison throughout her meal, asking him the particulars of food preparation on the ship, what kinds of supplies he kept on hand, and what his favorite foods were. He told her that baking was his favorite pastime when out at sea for long periods, and so he always had sacks upon sacks of flour kept in the hold. He had even learned how to make a palatable cookie from the barest of supplies, needing only flour, water, and some dried fruit. Emma was duly impressed, and told him so, only to make him blush—a slow reddening that traveled from the open collar of his shirt all the way up to his forehead.

Upon finishing breakfast and thanking Jamison once again, she slowly made her way on deck. Several crew members turned their heads from their lines and sails to follow her with admiring glances. Her heart hammered away in her chest like a hummingbird buzzing around a garden while her eyes traveled to the helm to find Jones, legs spread wide for balance as he expertly adjusted the wheel, scrutinizing the sails and the wind direction to maximize speed as they edged further away from land.

She captured his attention at almost the same moment he had captured hers, and his eyes widened in surprise, their brilliant blue mirroring the sea and intensifying in the morning sunlight with an appreciative gleam. Preoccupied with his obvious approval, she nearly tripped on a rope that was lying across her path, but caught herself and deftly stepped over it before meeting his eyes again, this time with a sheepish grin.

There was no way he had missed her clumsiness, and if he'd been Captain Hook, she could have anticipated some kind of sassy comment about her reaction to his impressive stature or something, but Jones had only smiled broadly and winked, before turning back to his job of setting the course, and it occurred to her that he wouldn't embarrass her in front of his crew.

She settled herself on a barrel near the railing, looking out over the water while still watching Jones from the corner of her eye, his commanding presence sending flutters of pleasure down to her toes.

The more she became acquainted with Jones, the more she became aware of how different he was from what she might have thought. He was optimistic, lively, good-natured and enthusiastic—in short, happy. She would never have described Hook that way, and in her own time, _her_ Killian always held a certain reserve about him, even when he was teasing. He was still sarcastic, and yet romantic, chivalrous and considerate of others, but his difficult past had left its own scars—scars that were no longer sensitive to the touch, having had the benefits of true love and family to toughen the flesh—but there nonetheless, rough and ropy tendrils gleaming white across the bright red of his heart.

Perhaps there was something she could do to ease the pain of the experiences ahead of him, she thought. She had no idea what that might be or how it would be possible, but maybe she could plant an idea without giving away his future. It would be risky, but he didn't deserve any less. And for all he'd done to redeem her own broken and twisted heart, the least she could do was to search for a way to lessen the suffering that would eventually bring them together.

Angling herself away from the water, Emma scanned the deck as the crewman bustled cheerily, delighted to be at sea once again, their joy evident in their back-slapping camaraderie. Those that weren't actively engaged with lines and adjusting sails were all cleaning something, and she now understood why Jones's ship always looked immaculate.

One of the sailors given the job of oiling the railing broke through her observations as he worked his way toward her, surreptitiously studying her beneath his lashes when he thought she wasn't looking. Emma had strong instincts regarding being watched, having spent her fair share of time in her own covert observations over the years, and kept her awareness on him, wondering what he was up to. At one point, he caught her eye, giving her a teeth-baring grin to match the delightful twinkle in his warm hazel eyes. He had a large scar running down one side of his face and dark hair that hung low over his forehead and curled down the back of his neck. He was about Jones's height, younger though, and thin but wiry, though Emma didn't doubt he was as strong as all the sailors she'd seen on this ship, regardless of size.

He moved even closer. "Name's Gavin, milady, in case you weren't rememberin'."

She hadn't remembered his name, but she'd remembered that fierce looking scar and the way he hopped to whenever Jones spoke. "Swan," she introduced herself, and leaned forward to offer him her hand.

He shook his head and put his hands out to show her they were dirty. "Lemme put this down and I'll be right back." He dropped the cloth and oil he was using and scurried away below deck, returning with a couple of wooden sticks.

"I was only wonderin' how you might like a bit of sparring? It's only that I don' get many chances to practice on account of everyone bein' busy like." He bent his head, as though he expected her to turn him down. She reached for one of the sticks with a smile, gaining a look of grateful surprise from him.

"Are you a sword fighter?" she asked curiously, assuming that most pirates could wield a blade, being necessary in their line of work.

"Beginner. That's how I got this." He pointed to the large scar across his cheek. "When I was onboard another ship, I got into a fight with one of the crewman. Said he didn't like the way I looked at him. I was the youngest, so I expected some teasin', but for some reason he really hated me, challenged me to a duel and I lost… left me with this as a reminder to learn how to defend myself. When I came onboard here, Jamison taught me a few moves, but I still need to practice."

That seemed like a harsh lesson for one so young. "How old are you?"

He looked down at his feet and shuffled them a bit before answering. "Nineteen, milady."

"Seems awfully young for piracy." She tilted her head to the side, skeptically regarding him.

He extended his chest forward in an outward display of bravado. "Not as young as Cap'n."

That was true. She glanced back at Jones, blue eyes darting between the water and the sails and back to one of the sailors to bark out an order to hold a line. Killian had become pirate and captain all in one at the ripe age of eighteen, but she imagined he was the exception rather than the rule.

"Alright then, sir, I challenge thee to a dual," she said pleasantly, and bowed low, holding the sword out, ready for a bit of exercise and praying she'd remember all the different moves that Killian and David and Henry had shown her over the past couple of years.

He raised one brow in amusement, suddenly looking much older than his nineteen years. "Yes, milady, let us see exactly what you are made of."

She furrowed her brows at the odd comment, so incompatible with the cheerful boy from moments before, but said nothing.

He moved first, wooden stick held at arm's length, legs in a classic attack position as he swerved the blade toward her middle. Emma parried, deflecting his blow easily, and then lifted her makeshift sword to swing for his shoulder, which he easily blocked as well.

"So I hear you're from the land without magic. If there's no magic in your realm, how did you get here?" he asked casually, making a pass along her side.

"I honestly don't know." She whipped around to meet him head on.

They danced back and forth, blocking and attacking, nothing too strenuous or exciting, and Emma found herself enjoying the light exercise, the breeze picking up her long hair off the back of her neck and cooling her with its light touch.

"But you must know about magic." Gavin lunged for her hip, then quickly changed directions before giving her a light tap on the other.

"Nice fake. Why do you say that?" She canted backward to gain a little space between them.

"Well, if your land has no magic, how do you know to call it that unless you've encountered magic before?" He moved forward again, stick upright and ready, waiting for her to attack this time.

"Valid point. Why do you want to know?" She swung high and the moment he raised his stick to block, she quickly brought the tip of her stick to just under his armpit, touching him lightly.

He smiled widely, conceding the point. "Curiosity. I know the cap'n is helping you get back to your realm, which should only require a bean. Those are easy enough to come across through friends of the giants, so where are we going instead and why?"

Thinking the kid sure paid attention, Emma settled a wary gaze on him. She had no intention of telling him anything, no matter how innocent he appeared to be. It wasn't in her nature to trust that easily. "You're a nosy kid, you know that?"

He grinned again, grunting under the effort of the exercise. "Aye, so I've been told more 'n once." He swung wide and low at Emma's leg, but she jumped backward, eluding the blow.

"In this case, you're just going to have to trust your captain." She lunged forward quickly, stabbing at his middle, but he dropped the point of his stick just in time, blocking her thrust with the thickest part of it, before shoving her backward with a strong push.

He paused a minute, allowing them both time to catch their breaths. "Speaking of the cap'n, what is it with you two?"

Initially startled by the question, Emma diligently blanked her features. "What are you talking about?" She raised her stick again, ready.

He circled around a bit, playfully regarding her, and clearly not believing her. "The way you look at him… as though you know him or something. I thought you'd only just met."

_Damn kid_. He was observant, just like Henry. She'd have to be more careful to avoid Jones in the future. If the kid could see it, then anyone could, and who knew what kind of repercussions that might have. "We did just meet. I don't know what you're talking about," she said levelly, fixing him with a gaze that said the matter was closed.

He smiled in resignation, shrugging his shoulders, his sun-touched eyes crinkling like those of a very old man. "No matter. I have everything I need."

"What?" she asked, discomposed once again. His simple words held a heaviness that suddenly filled her with concern, making her wonder just how much she had given away and just how much he knew.

"Right now," he said brightly, "everything I need is here, sparring on a beautiful day with a beautiful woman. I couldn't ask for anything else. En guarde!"

His pleasant expression disarmed her, and she smiled in spite of herself, the feeling of concern evaporating as quickly as it had come. Thinking to herself how much she really needed to relax, she focused her attention back on the match, enjoying the bright sunshine, the delightful conversation and the swift motion stretching her limbs as good as any kickboxing class back home, losing herself in the joy of how much he reminded her of Henry.

.

.

Killian's hands ached from gripping the wheel of his ship, knuckles whitening with each crack of the wooden sticks, maintaining their course as well as he could with the unwelcome distraction. Gavin hadn't been a member of the crew for very long, so Killian didn't know much about him, except that he was a hard worker and obedient to his orders. But Killian had kept his eye on the boy until he could be proven, the nature of their business requiring a certain amount of secrecy and trust; so far the boy had never given him a reason to doubt him. Killian now looked at him with a renewed interest, unwillingly noticing Gavin's appreciative glances toward his bewitching sparring partner whose attention he was currently enjoying. Killian could interrupt the play and send the boy back to work, but he didn't think Emma would appreciate his acting like a jealous suitor.

Pulling his eyes away from the sparring match with a slight grimace, he looked out over the endless expanse of water. He had once heard the ocean referred to as a basin holding the gods' tears, but nothing even remotely melancholy threatened in the azure distance, and he wondered if the person who said it had ever been out at sea on a day like this one.

This was his favorite type of weather for a sail, sunlight sparkling off the low waves in a perfect imitation of a sea of crystals. A light wind blew inquisitively through the open air, puffing out the sails like mushroom clouds, each breath of breeze deferring to the objects and persons it encountered by skirting quickly around them. One such draft drew his eyes back to Emma as it wafted through her long blond hair, whipping it around her face in a frenzied caress, making his own fingers itch to comb through her silky tresses. The sunlight danced on her glowing skin, and a faint sheen covered her face, cheeks pink from the exertion. Gods, she looked wondrous in the tight leather trousers and fitted vest that highlighted her extraordinary shape. She looked like a pirate. _His_ pirate. Then to watch her twist and turn, parry and feint, pass and thrust; she was a sight, determination and focus lending her a sovereign air, as though she could control the elements themselves with only a thought. Her lithe movements were enough to make his mouth go dry and his gut ache.

He saw her tilt her head back to laugh at something the boy had said, yet remain mindful of her opponent, never turning her eyes away from him. She was surprisingly good with a blade, and he noted she would be a worthy ally in an actual fight. After awhile, they laid their sticks against the railing, Emma sitting back down on the barrel and Gavin picking up his rag to continue his work. They were still talking, and Killian could see that she was enjoying herself.

He frowned in dismay. Why was it she consistently closed herself off to him, and yet accepted the attentions of the other members of his crew? Killian knew she wasn't unaffected by him; he knew she found him attractive, but to actively flirt with the boy was more than he could bear, and the question of just how strongly she was tied to her husband back home moored itself in a tidy corner of his mind.

He turned the wheel over to one of the crew now that they were on a steady course, a thin line of land visible from the starboard side of the ship. He made his way to his cabin, closing the door behind him and settling himself in his chair, propping a leg up before reaching for his bottle of rum. He deserved a drink after everything he'd had to endure over the last few days.

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Having gone over the map to the seer's several times, updating his logbook and charting out their course on paper, Killian emerged from the depths of his cabin, stumbling just a little, realizing with chagrin that he may have had more rum than he'd intended. His thoughts had been a jumbled mess, and he couldn't remember what he'd written in the logbook, although it wouldn't be the first time he'd written nonsense, especially after Liam's death.

He had spent the greater part of the last few hours trying to wipe Emma's image from his mind, which kept rudely intruding in on his work even with the rum, and now he thought the gods must be having a bit of sport with his heart, kicking it back and forth like a ball of rags beneath a gaggle of children's feet. He stepped out on deck into the waning sunset.

At precisely that moment, one of the gods must have landed a particularly powerful kick to the beating organ, and he nearly doubled over as his breath left his lungs in a quiet whoosh, the last bit of air sticking in his throat as though he'd swallowed the rag ball itself. Emma. She was bent over the rail directly in front of him, arms resting on the freshly oiled wood, wistfully looking out over the water. The sunset outlined the edges of her body distinctly, as though she had been painted on a canvas with the Jolly as a backdrop, the contours of her silhouette standing out in stark relief. He had never experienced such a strong attraction toward a woman in his life; no one had ever affected him as she was.

He sidled up to her, the rum and his chaotic thoughts emboldening him to lighten the burden of frustrated inclinations, and he pressed his mouth against her ear.

"Always mind your position, love." Her perfectly round bottom was barely concealed beneath the soft leather trousers. He skimmed his hand over the stretched fullness, a glancing touch before sliding up to her waist and settling on her lower back. "Else you might attract unwanted advances."

She jerked away from him, green eyes blazing. "What are you doing?" she asked accusingly.

"Much the same as you, I expect. Enjoying the view." He smirked, hoping to provoke her as sure as she'd provoked him, relishing the fire his words tempted from those smoky eyes. She was a wild and passionate one; he'd bet money on it. He leaned against the railing next to her, but didn't touch her again even though his body ached for it.

"You're drunk and being an ass." She turned back toward the water, putting some space between them, her mouth pressed in a tight line.

He closed the distance and placed his lips against her ear again, whispering, "I prefer pleasantly relaxed and rakishly charming, love."

She stood up a little straighter and whipped her head around. He didn't miss the flush of her cheeks and he smirked again in response.

"Grabbing my ass is supposed to be charming? You've a funny definition of the word, buddy," she said sarcastically.

"Perhaps as funny as your definition of marriage, hmm?" he challenged. He knew he was picking a fight he'd likely lose, but he had spent a couple of painful hours watching her with the boy, a couple of hours wishing she would talk to him with such unguarded ease, and he always was the type to go for broke.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she spit out, eyes dilating with fury as she turned to face him, standing up to her full height.

"Just that you seem to have no problem raining your attentions on the boy." His words were calm, but his tone had gone from mocking to frustrated, and he glared at her, jealousy flaring anew in his chest like a fresh spark on tinder.

"What the hell are you talking about?" she demanded.

"I saw your little conversation, Swan… laughing coquettishly at his words, even touching his hand at one point. I thought you had a husband to hasten home to." He stepped back, satisfied when he saw her gasp in surprise. Guilt if he ever saw it.

He shrugged and walked back toward his cabin.

Their voices had been quiet up until then, if impassioned, but when she followed him, she nearly shouted at his back. "I do have a husband to get home to. How dare you question me about that?"

He had reached his cabin, and he slammed the door open wide, whirling back around to meet her full on, anger claiming him too. "I'm risking life and limb to get you back to this so-called family of yours, only to have you rebuff me at every turn. What is your problem, Swan?"

"My problem? All you ever do is try to charm me with your good looks and funny stories, instead of just leaving me alone, all while you have a mistress on the side. How is that any different?"

"Mistress? I have nothing of the sort. I'm a free man in every sense of the word. It's you who goes all hot and cold at the drop of a hat, so that one minute I'm in a desert and the next I'm in an ice storm." He was towering over her now, but she didn't back down.

"Damn it, Hook! Then what is Milah? I saw you together in the square. Looked like a mistress to me," she challenged, hands fisted at her sides.

"Milah? Is that what this is about?" He had honestly forgotten Milah, had never felt the hunger he felt for Emma for the farmer's wife. "And who's Hook? Another of your many suitors?" he spat out.

Her eyes turned a grayish green, the color of the sky just before an electrical storm, when the edges of the trees and landmarks stand out in absolute clarity. She clenched her teeth, speaking through her tight lips. "Hook is you, when you're being an ass. What is Milah to you then?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he taunted with an upraised brow.

She closed her eyes and swallowed thickly. When she reopened them, he could see her vibrating with tension, carefully controlling her emotions. With effort, she conceded, "Maybe I would."

His heart lurched in his chest, her abrupt change filling him with all kinds of hope that maybe Jamison was right, and this connection he felt with her was not one-sided after all.

"Why?" He stepped closer to her to brush a lock of hair over her shoulder, his pulse speeding up with anticipation. He'd guessed correctly—she had been jealous of Milah—and it took effort to keep from rejoicing in triumph that perhaps he did stand a chance at gaining her heart.

She was watching him closely, strong emotions still barely concealed beneath her calm expression. "Because it matters."

"Swan, what aren't you telling me?" He rested his hands on her arms, wishing he could hold her, but not able to, yet.

"I can't… But I'd still like to know." She choked on her words a little, sounding as though she were about to cry, but her green eyes remained dry as they studied him intently.

He paused, considering the implications of answering her question. He didn't usually share details of his relationships with anyone, save Jamison perhaps, but even then he only gave a rough sketch. But this was Emma, and she was different. If Milah truly was standing between him and his chance at a beginning with Emma, then he'd gladly tell her anything she wanted to know, especially while he could still plead drunkenness for his honesty depending on her reaction.

"She's… she's just a lass who meets me at the tavern when we're in town, who plays cards and drinks like a fish. We met a couple of months ago and she says she wants to leave her husband but lacks the courage to do so yet." She looked satisfied or relieved, he couldn't tell in the gloom of his cabin.

"She wants to leave him for you?" Her green eyes darkened and lowered to his mouth, watching him answer the same way he studied the clouds to determine the weather, not missing a single thing.

"I imagine so, but no words have been spoken." He began to lightly stroke her arms through her shirt, hoping she wouldn't notice the small touch and push him away.

"Would you take her?" Her words were barely loud enough for him to make out.

The answer to that simple question would send him down two completely different paths. He had thought about it a couple of times, of taking Milah with him at some point. It would be nice to have constant female companionship on long sea voyages, nice to have someone warm his bed. He was definitely a one-woman man, never able to really stomach the fleeting relationships that most sailors found themselves a party to. But his relationship with Milah hadn't progressed that far. Hell, he hadn't even bedded the woman yet, having enjoyed their stolen moments for just what they were, losing himself in the thrill of their flirtation, although he knew she would gladly give herself to him if given the chance.

He rubbed the hair at the back of his neck. "I'm not ready to take on a full-time female companion… that is unless you're offering?" he smirked knowingly, hoping to steer their conversation away from its serious turn.

She ignored the comment and asked instead, "Are you… together?"

"Why is this so important to you, lass?" He stepped even closer to her, his hand coming up to brush the pad of his thumb across her cheek. She was staring at his chest, he saw, and looked up at him to answer.

"It just… is."

He spoke quietly, afraid to break the tender moment. "No, we're not together, not in the sacred sense of the term… And…" He trailed off, unsure whether or not to finish the thought.

"And…" She held his gaze questioningly, and he decided she was worth the risk to his heart.

"And she's nothing compared to you." She obviously hadn't expected his answer, since her breath caught and her green eyes widened before drifting to his mouth again, and he knew, he knew without a doubt that now was the time to kiss her if ever there was a time to do it. He leaned down, watching her, waiting for permission. She didn't move, only tilted her face toward his, ever so slowly, closing her eyes as he pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was gentle and slow, but no less tantalizing. She tasted like ale and the apple she'd eaten earlier, softness and light. Her lips fitted to his like they were meant to be there, a settling, like coming home after a long journey apart. He still held her cheek and wrapped his other hand around her narrow waist, pulling her into him, her curves feeling so good and warm and alive and _right_, while both of her hands pressed into his chest, curling around the edges of his shirt. She was tasting him, feeling him, breathing him in. And he was holding himself back, letting her, carrying out the same slow exploration of the amazing woman he'd wanted to kiss since he'd first laid eyes on her.

Then he tasted the salt of her tears as they made their way down her face.

.

.

Nothing could have prepared Emma for that kiss, that slow and languid kiss that stole her breath and left her body floating away in a sea of yearning. She was kissing her husband again, and she was home, and they had all night to themselves because that's how he always kissed her when he was going to take things slowly. And she couldn't fight it anymore. She couldn't fight how much she loved him, how he made her feel beautiful and cherished and most importantly, _loved_. He tasted like Killian, _her_ Killian, like rum and salt and leather and the man she'd fallen in love with a thousand times over. She tightened her hold on him, crying, her heart breaking at how much she had missed him.

After a few moments of complete bliss, she became aware of a burning sensation on her right thigh. She shifted, trying to move away from the fiery touch without disengaging their embrace. The burning continued getting stronger and hotter until she pulled away from him completely with a loud exclamation of pain.

She looked down, eyes falling on the round bulge in her pocket, by now feeling as though a hole was burning through the leather. She reached into her pocket and removed the opal stone, before quickly dropping it to the ground like a hot potato. It was glowing white, the cerulean and amber lines crisscrossing wildly through it, flaring and glaring as if in accusation.

"What is it, love?" His hands were resting on her waist now, and he looked from her to the stone and back.

"The stone. It's burning… hot. It's…" She bent to touch it, and picked it up; it was completely cool once again.

She looked up at him, comprehension dawning on her face, and she covered her mouth with her hand, realizing that she'd been kissing him, that she had allowed jealousy to cloud her judgment and put them both in danger of changing the past more than it was already going to be altered. He had to fall in love with Milah, and he wouldn't fall in love with Milah if he fell in love with her. She stood up straight, wiping her tears with the back of her hand and keeping her eyes on the ground to avoid the broken look she knew she'd find on his face.

"I'm sorry, Jones. This is a one-time thing." She took two steps toward the door, his hand on her arm stopping her.

"Swan," he choked out, "Don't leave."

Her heart was tearing at the seams, one stitch at a time, slowly, painfully, so she spoke without turning around. "I can't do this with you. It's Milah you should be with."

She walked out the door, his muttered "As you wish," completely rending the last seam of her ragged heart.

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**My lovely beta is extremely busy, and because I don't like to go too long between postings, I'm posting this without her expert advice. If any of you see something that needs attention, please don't hesitate to let me know, and I'll fix it for future readers! Thanks!**


	10. Pirates!

**Thanks to all my readers and followers, and welcome to the new ones!**

**Beta-read by the cleverest of the clever: Revenessa and lethemorai. Thanks so much, you guys! ~DD**

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Chapter 10: Pirates!

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As if the gods of the sky could somehow sense Killian's mood, the day broke gray and little blustery, offering a show of support he wasn't likely to get from the object of his ruminations. He welcomed the constant breeze, its touch cooling his skin before his body could even think of breaking a sweat as he and Emma hiked through the rocky forest terrain toward the seer's location. Several types of trees dotted the contours of the rolling land, filling the forest with the nutty odors of oaks and pecans, as well as the astringent smell of turpentine from the conifers. Large boulders nestled amongst the trees, tucked here and there like small children holding the hands of their protectors, an occasional darkening in their faces marking the entrance to a possible cave or shallow den for larger animals.

They had disembarked from the Jolly Roger earlier that morning, each carrying a pack complete with a bedroll and spare change of clothes, and weapons—a couple of daggers, a sword for him and a cutlass for her—as well as dry rations in case he couldn't do any fishing or hunting.

He had given Emma a wide berth the previous day on the ship and this morning, not surprised when she'd avoided him completely. Now was not the time to push her; he knew that much, even in the short time they'd spent together. He'd been biding his time, knowing they would be alone soon enough, and giving her the chance to recover from the intensity of that kiss. _That kiss_, fleeting and yet no less powerful, filling him with equal measures of hope and despair—hope that she was just as affected by their inexplicable connection as he was, and despair that she'd leave and he'd never see her again. His lips still burned in memory of it, and he found himself envying another man for the first time in his life.

She was definitely hiding something important about his future, and although he could see her point about maintaining the timeline as much as currently possible, he wondered how much could really change if knew some of what was to come, which begged the question: wasn't this an opportunity to avoid the mistakes and pitfalls of life that inevitably occur? Did she know him well enough in her time to know what he regretted, to know what he would give anything to rectify about his life? There was no way to answer that, not now at least, not when she was as unyielding as she currently appeared to be.

He glanced over his shoulder at her as she followed behind him quietly, staring at her boots and lost in thought, different emotions playing across her face like shadows dancing in firelight. What he wouldn't give to peek into a window of her mind, to know what she knew, to experience what she had seen. But he could see the weight of her decision to maintain his history resting heavily on her delicate shoulders, bearing a responsibility that no one should have the misfortune to bear, especially a lass as deserving of happiness as she was.

Emma… gods, she was bold and self-assured, and yet soft and passionate—a woman who could fend for herself, but would still allow him to protect her, to comfort her. Rather the perfect combination if you asked him. He wanted a partner, and yet to be needed at the same time.

Of course the crew had spoken of his argument with her. Half of them had witnessed her shouting at him, but they knew better than to mock him about it, knowing he'd have them doing extra chores or abandoned at the next port. No, when he was in a foul temper, the crew generally avoided him. Not Jamison though. As soon as the rest of his crew had gone off to find their beds for the night, Jamison had characteristically refilled his mug of ale and motioned to one of the chairs with _that look_, not so much suggesting Killian join him as insisting on it.

And Killian had. He'd told Jamison about their kiss, and how she'd closed off right afterward, how she'd walked away without a backward glance, only to tell him that he should be with Milah. Milah! How he almost hated himself for being so unsettled over a woman he'd only just met, and had asked his friend sheepishly, "D'you think I'm mad, mate?"

To which Jamison had replied, "No son, not mad… In love."

Killian had rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin, then buried his face in his ale, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, the truth of the words wrestling for recognition amidst the doubts that inevitably arose whenever he thought about sending Emma back to her own time, grateful that it was only Jamison to witness his vulnerability and confusion. He'd wanted women before, occasionally taken his pleasure from them, but never been in love. He was sure he would have known it if he had.

They had talked for awhile after that, Jamison's encouraging words soothing Killian like a balm on a bad burn, until finally Jamison had quoted an old proverb from his childhood:

May those who love us, love us.

For those who do not love us, may God turn their hearts.

And if He cannot turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles,

so we may know them by their limping.

Killian glanced back at Emma again, this time watching her footsteps, looking for any trace of limping. He found none and smiled, his step lightening faintly with genuine optimism, and he offered a silent prayer to the gods that was a good sign.

.

.

An inquisitive dragonfly buzzed around Jones's shoulder, darting back and forth, almost as though it were sniffing him, checking him out, and perhaps it was, because as soon as it finished with him, it bumbled over to her, hovering in mid air, flitting from one side of her face to the other, watching and waiting. _Why are you here?_ It seemed to ask. Emma stared back and projected into the ether: _I wish I knew_. She felt more than a little foolish having a silent conversation with a dragonfly, but this whole trip had taken on a surreal quality to it, so that she was beginning to question whether or not her past was a dream that she'd finally awoken from and her present was reality. Confusion settled over her, tangling her in a network of mixed emotions and conflicted ideas.

She wished _her_ Killian was here. He would listen to her predicament and offer carefully thought-out suggestions and possible solutions. He would hold her, gently rub her back as she talked, his soothing presence taking away any anxiety that might have taken root. He was a wonderful listener, and always seemed to know her innermost concerns, voicing what she often didn't have words for or wasn't even aware of. He was wise, and he understood human nature and reactions better than anyone. She had always assumed it was his three hundred years of life experience, but meeting Jones had shown her that his wisdom was innate, a special gift Killian was born to.

The sound of her boots crunching on the hardened dirt dragged her back to the present. Jones was just ahead, and she wondered what he was thinking, having avoided him since their kiss, praying that she could somehow redeem the one mistake that could have eternal implications. There were so many things that could go wrong if he didn't fall in love with Milah. Rumplestiltskin became the Dark One because his wife left him for Jones. Rumple wrote the curse that Regina used to whisk everyone to the land without magic. If the curse wasn't written, then she would have been raised in the Enchanted Forest, she might not have met Neal, and while that portion of her life was one she'd rather forget, Henry had still been the result of their union, and she couldn't chance his not being born. And that was just the tip of the iceberg, not including how Jones's life would change, quite possibly ending in old age nearly two-hundred seventy years before she was even born. No, it was a big giant mess she'd be in if Jones didn't fall in love with Milah.

Emma had assumed he was involved with the woman, in every sense. And when he told her he wasn't, she had been relieved of all things. Relieved! She had no idea she'd been so jealous of the dark-haired beauty whose name had graced his wrist with a flourish of permanent ink, but being totally honest with herself, she had, and she couldn't help but wonder if he would have gone to the same lengths for her that he had to avenge Milah. The anxious part of her, the part of her that was homesick and scared whispered, _Killian's love for Milah was once in a lifetime_. And the sarcastic part of her retorted, _Well, he's had about five of those_.

But now to have him walking in front of her, occasionally consulting the map to check their trajectory, untainted by lost love and betrayal, she wanted to capture him in a bubble to protect his heart from the future that awaited him. And so, after a day and a night to think about it, she'd finally formulated a possible plan on how she might get history back on track with Jones. But she'd need to make a deal with the Dark One, and she had no clue who he was or how she was supposed to find him.

Jones slowed his step, allowing her to catch up to him until she was walking by his side, careful to maintain a bit of space between them. She looked up at him in question, wondering what he had to say, the breeze picking up a few errant leaves and stirring them around her feet.

A smile played at the corner of his lips. "Have you figured it out yet, lass?"

"What?" She turned her head to avoid his impish expression, waiting for the cheeky comment or innuendo that was sure to come.

"Whatever it is on your boots that has gained so much of your attention." At her upturned brow he continued, "You've been staring at them for the better part of an hour. You even have me wishing I was born a piece of cobbled leather." He waggled his brow at her and grinned.

She rolled her eyes. "Seriously? You really need to come up with better pick up lines."

"If you're referring to those words said to gain a lady's consideration, then I'd say my lines aren't so bad." An impudent smirk settled on his lips.

"How do you figure that?" she said sarcastically, but with an amused undertone.

"You're conversing with me now, aren't you?" He quirked a brow and nodded once in mild triumph, placing both his hands on the straps of his backpack to take a little of the weight off his shoulders.

"So you're just trying to make small-talk," she said as a statement rather than a question.

"Come now, Swan, can't you spare the least bit of pity for a lonely man starved for the conversation of a beautiful lass like yourself?"

"Lonely? You? Why do I find that hard to believe?"

He was quiet, and the forest seemed suddenly filled with birdsong, a chittering sound amidst the blowing wind, and she looked up to see a large flock of tiny birds perched on the topmost limbs of two oak trees, flying around back and forth, alighting here and there, cheerfully playing some kind of game like musical chairs.

"I thought we covered that the other night." He spoke simply, but looked over at her pointedly, blue eyes cutting through her like a hot knife through butter.

Her knees nearly buckled as she was assaulted with images of his lips brushing against hers, her mouth tasting him as surely as if he were kissing her now. She shouldn't have been surprised by the comment; he never knew to leave well enough alone.

"I wouldn't know, Jones. Just along for the ride." She watched as his blue eyes flared with suppressed emotion, and she averted her face to escape the touch of sorrow she saw there, the sorrow that told her how deeply he felt for her, the sorrow hiding behind carefully controlled frustration. She kept walking forward, eyes down; she would just pretend it had never happened.

"Ah, so that's how it is, is it?" he challenged, voice sharp.

"Something like that." She swallowed thickly, frowning at the ground in front of her. Then changing the subject to avoid the prickling sensation his penetrating stare sent down her spine, she asked, "How much further until we get to the seer's location?"

He continued staring at her for a long moment and then seemed to let it go for the time being, unfolding the map he had in his pocket, stopping to show her. "See? This is where we are." He pointed to another section of the map, "and this is where things get confusing. It looks like some kind of maze; see how the path keeps twisting in on itself?"

She nodded, hoping it wasn't the type of path they could get lost on.

"Well, there doesn't seem to be anything between here and there, so we'll walk until we get tired and then we'll make camp for the night, probably somewhere around here." He pointed to a spot on the map that was about halfway between where they were now and where they needed to be.

She nodded again, shifting her pack a little and pulling out her canteen for a swig of water.

The terrain narrowed a bit through a scattering of boulders and he asked, "Would you like to lead, lass?"

"Yeah, and give you the opportunity to ogle my ass? No thanks. After you." She tilted her head to the side with the most sarcastic smile she could muster.

He smirked in reply and took a large step forward, a slight spring in his step as he took the lead. Actually, she was glad they didn't have to walk side by side. Constantly managing her facial expressions exhausted her, and she was doing her damnedest to remain as impassive and unaffected by him as possible.

She contented herself instead with the sights and sounds of the forest, occasionally catching the tune to the whistle that drifted back on the air currents as he happily hiked.

====o0I0o====

The wind had settled down throughout the afternoon and they made camp right before dusk, Killian leaving Emma to tend the new fire while he went hunting, setting a few quickly fashioned snares to hopefully capture something fresh for their breakfast. The skittering sounds of small creatures hastily burrowing down for the night mingled with the distinguishing calls of several creatures, some larger than others, and Killian sent a silent prayer to the gods that they'd encounter no dangerous beasts that night.

Finding a tree with several small ripe apricots on it, he ate one and picked a large handful to complement their supper, putting them in the bag slung across his shoulder before setting the final snare nearby to catch any creatures looking to taste the delectable fruit. He found a small stream and paused long enough to refill his and Emma's canteens, and as luck would have it, a small patch of edible greens were growing along the water's edge, the kind he used to pick for Mrs. Fritz, watercress he thought she called it. He picked the youngest and tenderest of the bright green leaves, rinsing the mud from them in the stream, their herbaceous smell reminding him fondly of his childhood caretaker.

He made his way back to their campsite, fire now blazing, Emma sitting on the ground staring fixatedly at the flames. She tensed when she heard his footsteps.

"Here," he said, and handed her the refilled canteen along with the bag.

She took them from him without looking, taking a large swig of water before opening the bag and pulling out one of the apricots, eyes wide with surprise.

"Never saw you as much of the gatherer type," she said, turning the fruit in her hand before looking up at him, interested.

"No? Well, everyone's got to eat, Swan, including a pirate who occasionally gets stuck in the forest on the run."

She smiled at that, biting into the orange skin, juice spurting down her chin.

"Mmm… Wow, they have so much flavor!" She closed her eyes in bliss, and he fought the urge to kiss the excess juice away from her mouth.

He squatted down beside her instead, picked up a small fruit, and tossed it up and down a few times, intentionally focusing on something other than Emma's facial expression that sent a pleasant jolt throughout his body. "I used to eat them all the time when I was younger, playing near the farm. Made a good snack between meals."

"I can imagine." She gave a satisfied smile, licking her fingertips. "Is there anything I can do?"

He dropped the fruit back on the pile and held her green gaze for a moment before smiling easily. "Your company is assistance enough, lass."

She rolled her eyes and stood up, but not before he saw the soft flush in her cheeks. "I'll just be a minute…"

"There's a stream a couple minutes walk in that direction if you'd like a quick wash." He pointed accordingly and she grabbed a spare square of cloth from her pack before excusing herself with a small thank you, making her way into the forest beyond.

Smiling to himself, he pulled a small metal bowl out of his pack to cook the watercress leaves on the outskirts of the fire. He felt a little like those greens, barely touching the engulfing flames, but aware nonetheless of the heat, the heat of a life altering passion a mere breath away. If only she would relent, give over to their shared interest, he knew it'd be an experience beyond his wildest imagination. But life had never come easy to him, and perhaps that was for the best; he'd always liked a challenge, and Emma Swan was certainly that.

.

.

Fresh-faced and somewhat rejuvenated, Emma stopped at the edge of their campsite, a tiny smile playing on her lips when she saw Jones fiddling with the fire and a couple of plates. The remnants of the setting sun and the warm glow of the fire limned his body in a red wash that glinted off his dark hair and sparked off the shiny buttons on his jacket. He was kneeling down in the dirt, completely relaxed and so handsome, and she ached to touch him, to run her fingers through his luxurious hair, to hold him close and protect him from his future with her own resolve.

But she couldn't. She couldn't break his heart when he was so close to losing it because of her. She knew him well enough to know he was falling in love with her, and she wouldn't mess with him like that, no matter how difficult it was to keep her hands to herself.

She draped the cloth over a nearby branch to dry, and settled down next to the fire, its heat dispelling the slight chill introduced into the air with the descent of the sun.

Jones smiled as he handed her a plate with some of the cooked greens, a bit of jerky and a biscuit. "Not much in the way of seasoning, but it's nice to have something green now and then," he said.

"Ok, you are full of surprises. I expected sailors to live exclusively on meat and ban all vegetables." _Her_ Killian ate whatever he was served, said it was bad form to turn down a meal someone had gone to the trouble to prepare, but she never realized he actively sought to consume greens.

He chuckled appreciatively. "Most do, but Mrs. Fritz had a particular liking for them and was convinced they were the reason her people kept their teeth." He bared his teeth to show her. "See? All there, intact, so I guess she was right."

He did have excellent teeth. Grinning and shaking her head, she said, "You look like a crazed jack rabbit… She is right. Scurvy is the disease that causes people to lose their teeth from not eating enough fresh food."

"Aye? Well, I didn't know there was a name for it. I just don't want my mouth to look like my mates." He sat down next to her, plate balanced on one knee as he started eating.

"I know what you mean." She stared off into the flames, eating her simple meal, thinking about Jones and his teeth, which made her think about his mouth, which made her think about their kiss, which made her pinch herself and remember Milah.

====o0I0o====

The night was cool, but not so cool that Killian would have a chance of getting Emma to lay out her bedroll next to his, so he didn't even suggest it. He rolled his out and laid back, hands across his chest, staring at the stars peeking out from the canopy above. He heard Emma's quiet breathing across the fire; perhaps she was asleep already, dreaming about her family.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Killian woke with a start to the sound of low voices. The fire had burned down low, nothing more than a few coals glowing orange amidst the cooler gray ash of the spent wood.

He got up quickly but quietly and moved over to Emma, who was already awake, her gaze questioning when she saw him crouching next to her pallet.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"I thought I heard voices. Shhh." He put a hand on her shoulder and looked around the campsite to see if he could discern the direction of the intruders.

"I don' know, cap'n, the crown doesn' know we exist," said a man's voice very clearly, obviously quite nearby.

"Best keep it that way… I want you to keep an eye on our latest acquisition. See that he shares our goals, perhaps give him the _favor_ of proving himself to the rest of the crew," said his companion, his speech clear and educated, but cold.

Killian pointed to a spot away from the clearing, helping Emma up before rolling up his bedroll, grabbing his pack and sticking his weapons in his belt. She mimicked his movements, as quietly as possible.

"Aye, Aye, cap'n. 'Twill be my pleasure." The first voice took on a menacing undertone, and Killian knew he'd rather not meet up with these two, especially with Emma to protect.

Killian kicked dirt over the fire, and they were tiptoeing away from their campsite in the opposite direction of the voices within a couple of minutes.

Their progress was slow going over the rocky terrain in the dark; the stars providing little light. Killian stayed near Emma, steadying her elbow more than once over particularly rough patches. She always smiled her thanks, not risking words. He could only hope the men hadn't found their campsite and decided to follow.

Rounding a particularly large collection of boulders, Killian stopped, simultaneously pulling out his sword with one hand and putting his other across Emma's waist, effectively keeping her behind him. He felt her questioning look rather than saw it, but kept his eyes trained on the area in front of them, looking for the source of the footsteps he was sure he had heard. Before he could turn around and check behind them, Emma had stationed herself at his back, drawing her own cutlass. Unfortunately, he couldn't see over the boulder to his right.

"Now, now, Mr. Jones, that's no way to greet an old friend. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Killian tilted his head upward in surprise, recognizing a rival pirate dressed cleanly in tan breeches and white shirt, thick blond hair pulled into a queue at the back of his neck. He was crouching on top of the boulder, staring down his long straight nose with one thick brow bluntly arched.

"Alistair Astley, old fellow," Killian said with what he hoped was a convincing chuckle, "Just thought we'd drop in and offer a quick hello. Now that we have, what say you to letting us go on our way?" he asked charitably. This was an unfortunate turn of luck; Astley was well known for his cruelty and callousness, and even though Killian could assume the notorious pirate's lair was nearby, Astley boasted the protection of certain noblemen and would never be brought to justice even if Killian did share his whereabouts with the guards of one of the kingdoms.

The well-groomed pirate turned in the direction of the surrounding forest, and at least ten large and rather nasty-looking men, all heavily armed, eyes gleaming with the thrill of a possible fight, stepped out from behind the trees. Killian felt Emma's body tense behind him and he reached out to place his hand on her hip for encouragement. She pressed herself against him in silent acknowledgement before pulling away slightly, and they both angled their bodies toward the ring of pirates, keeping the boulder at their backs.

Astley jumped down from the boulder, landing lightly on his booted feet, eyes hooded like a hawk whose prey is within his sight.

"But you've come so far. 'Twould be rude to offer you anything less than our _full_ hospitality." He began walking back and forth in a steady pace, hands locked behind his back and looking amongst his men, the forest and his captives.

Killian widened his stance a hair, body tense for an attack, and strove to keep his voice level. "Oh, I shouldn't worry, Astley, we require nothing special."

"I'm sure. And who is your lovely lady?" Astley stopped his pacing, and Killian turned his head to see the blackguard regarding Emma with a gimlet eye, as though he were sizing her up to figure out what kind of price she would fetch. Killian's stomach dropped as he realized that could be exactly what the ruthless pirate was doing.

"No one of consequence. She's just along for the ride." Killian felt Emma stiffen behind him and he wished he could see her face to know if the barb had struck her as it had struck him when she'd first said it.

"Let's let the lady speak for herself, shall we?" he asked, moving closer. Emma raised her cutlass higher, effectively stopping his forward motion.

"What do you want from us?" she demanded.

"Oh, darling, you _are_ a feisty one." His words dripped with mockery and then he turned to Killian. "Well, that's the only kind of woman to have, then. Nicely done, Jones." Astley casually walked a semi-circle around them, and Killian could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the rogue captain rubbed his chin, not taking his eyes off them.

"What to do, what to do…" He resumed pacing back and forth, and Killian realized that it was all for show, to prolong the inevitable; the savage pirate had already made up his black mind.

"Wait. I know you take issue with me, but let the lass go." Killian had to at least try and reason with the man.

"Bargaining now, Jones? That's so unlike you. But the woman will fetch a pretty price where we're going, and you… well… you wouldn't be missed by many. In fact, I suspect there are several who would welcome being rid of your menacing ways. They may even be willing to pay for it." He raised a brow devilishly, then addressing his men, said, "Remove their belongings and take them to the prisoner's hold."

He looked up one last time with a faint grin on his face, his eyes almost wistful as he swept them both up and down before walking away from the scene, just as several men started closing in on them.

* * *

_A/N The proverb is from the movie, Keeping the Faith. Review?_


	11. Capture

_Welcome back, everyone. Here's a nice, long chapter for you. Thanks bunches to Revenessa and lethemorai whose profound comments flesh out this story even more. Let me know what you like or don't like, and I'll see if I can work more of it (or less) into the story. Cheers!~DD_

* * *

Chapter 11: Capture

* * *

Aware of their marked disadvantage, Killian dropped his pack at the base of the boulder, Emma following suit, as a sudden wind gust flattened his hair into his eyes and briefly blocked his view of the surrounding pirates. He shook the hair out of his face and glanced over at Emma, tilting his head and motioning with his eyes, silently telling her to stay close and keep the boulder at their backs so they wouldn't be taken from behind. He was rewarded with a quick nod before her eyes turned back to their opponents, intent and serious, ready for the fight. The pirates closed in a semi-circle around them and exhaled a collective breath, faces eager to see who would make the first move.

A particularly rough looking pirate with skin darkened from the sun and white scars tracing a map over every exposed piece of skin stepped forward toward Killian, sword raised. "Le's just see what the great Cap'n Jones is made of!" He leered, then lunged, and the other pirates shifted on their feet, trying to decide if they would engage or hang back.

Killian blocked the thrust and heard the clinking of swords behind him as Emma engaged in her own battle. He tried to keep his mind on the man in front of him, the others having decided to watch and wait, but found himself twisting his head in her direction at every grunt she made and at nearly every clink of her cutlass. His heart had jumped into his throat when he saw her elude a particularly violent thrust, and distracted, he'd turned his head to his opponent just in time to block a savage attack aimed at his head. When another pirate leapt forward with a shout and outstretched sword, ready to participate in the combat, Killian knew his split attention would only get him killed.

Recalling her skilled swordplay with Gavin and the near constant manifestation of her toughness since he'd met her, he knew the biggest mistake they could make would be to underestimate her. Using that thought as an anchor, Killian cleared his mind and gave his full attention to the fight at hand.

Killian danced to the side, quickly ducking and lunging, deflecting all their blows rather easily. He was the better fighter, knew it as surely as he knew his own name, every strike of metal on metal releasing a small measure of his recent pent-up frustration. He was filled with exhilaration, the cool air expanding his lungs and clearing the cobwebs of emotional turmoil, the exercise waking a sense of invincibility within his prime and practiced body.

Not one to mess around with niceties, one of his attackers swung his sword straight for Killian's head, and he crouched just in time, aiming for his opponent's side, slashing a gash into the man's skin through his shirt. The pirate grimaced and swerved out of the way, ready for a second attack, this time thrusting for Killian's middle. Killian jumped backward, his hip glancing off Emma's, the small touch filling him with calm reassurance at her presence.

.

.

Emma felt the blade buzz by her ear and her body responded instinctively by spinning wildly aside. She bumped her head on Jones's rising elbow, grunting with the impact, although she felt no pain. Her opponent was bigger, stronger, obviously better with a blade and trying to kill her, and a part of her was loving every second of it. The other pirates hadn't even bothered to get into the fight, laughing and standing around nonchalantly taking bets, swords casually cocked. She heard Jones's sharp intake of breath and a hiss as he released it, and she tried to stay focused on her own battle and not on the worry of his being injured.

She moved forward, this time going on the offensive, striking a fake at the man's left side before swerving right, coming up to the side of him, and before he could turn, she grabbed the tiny Balgienit dagger from its sheath at her back and stabbed for his kidney. He twisted at just the last second and she expected the blade to bounce off his backbone. Instead, she felt it cut through something like rubber, as the knife slipped between two vertebrae. The man dropped to the ground like a heavy sack, spinal cord severed. Astounded, Emma stared at the unobtrusive knife in her blood-stained hand, suddenly very grateful for Mother Pearl.

Several of his comrades shouted for him to stand, still not understanding what had happened until they registered that he was screaming, "I can't move my legs! I can't move my legs!" Knowing she had seconds before she was attacked again, Emma hopped over the injured man presently trying to grab her ankles, and holding the dagger point down in her left hand, she raised her sword arm. She grimaced with dismay; her resulting position was further away from Jones and would give another pirate more space to enter the fray.

Sure enough, two pirates jumped forward to take the fallen man's place. She had lost the advantage of being underestimated as the weaker sex; they wouldn't go easy on her now. She flexed her knees, body weight balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to move in any direction. One of them swung his sword at her right shoulder while the other slashed downward toward her head. Emma dove to the left, rolling over her shoulder before coming into a crouch, dagger outstretched. She stood up before the pirate could recover from the blow still reverberating up his arm from hitting dirt instead of her head, and plunged her dagger in the crook of his neck and shoulder, nearly decapitating him as the knife slid sideways into the forgiving flesh. _Two down, several more to go._

She had no time to catch her breath as she was confronted with her other opponent, having been blocked by his comrade while Emma had been disposing of him. He was snarling in anger, and now made his way around the body to thrust for Emma's chest. She flew backward to avoid the blow, but tripped on the downed man, falling hard on her backside. Just as she went to stand up she heard, "I've had just about enough of this."

She had no idea who had spoken, and twisted her head to see another pirate rushing her from behind while her former opponent was bearing down on her from the front. The vision of a giant crab closing its pincers around her came to mind, and she would have laughed if the situation wouldn't have been so serious. The only thing to do was to roll to the right, away from the second fallen man, and hope the two pirates stabbed one another. If only she were that lucky.

She wasn't. The pirate rushing her from behind anticipated her move and swerved to the right, aiming his sword for her cutlass and effectively wrenching it from her grasp. It flew toward one of his mates, who deftly caught it with a loud, "Ehhh!"

_Damn!_ She pointed the dagger at him, scrabbling backward as he advanced upon her with a maniacal grin on his face. "Not so bold now, are ye?"

A cold bead of sweat traveled between her shoulder blades, and she realized she might not make it out of this situation. An icy fear gripped her heart at the thought of dying in the Enchanted Forest, with no word to Killian or Henry or her parents.

The pirate made a swipe for the wrist of her hand holding the dagger, but she spun the blade around in a last ditch effort to give herself time to relocate, or at least stand up, and caught him in the hand before he could even blink. He pulled his hand back, crying out in pain before lunging for her, kicking her hand while she fumbled to get her feet under her. She dropped her knife and he grabbed her wrist, tugging her up and twisting her around into his unwashed body. His stench enclosed her, smothering her with the thickness of it as sure as if a pillow had been placed over her face. Bile surged up the back of her throat, and she fought the rising panic while she searched for Jones, relaxing only slightly when she saw his head bob up and around one of his adversaries. Jones was doing well, holding his own against not one, but two men. He had disposed of a couple of pirates himself, their discarded bodies writhing in pain, and she smiled in satisfaction that while the fight was already decided, at least they'd put a dent in their numbers.

When his opponents saw that she was captured, they moved back from the fight, Jones following them with marked determination until he realized what was happening. He abruptly turned around, blue eyes immediately finding her, flashing with fury as they traveled to the point of the sword at her neck before filling with concern when they met her own wary gaze. He dropped his sword immediately, blanking out his features with deft precision before taking two steps back from his weapon.

"Have to say I'm a lil' disappointed, Jones. Shame we couldn' finish ou' the fight." The man holding Emma spoke, his fetid breath causing her to avert her head, only to be jerked firmly back into place.

Jones's eyes narrowed angrily again before he checked himself, allowing a coldness to settle across his shoulders like a well-worn coat. "I'd say thirteen men against one and a lass is a fight whose end is already determined."

"Per'aps we'll have to try again sometime. Mebbe when the Cap'n doesn' have such o'vious plans for ye."

"I look forward to it." Killian bowed slightly, but didn't take his eyes off the pirate clutching Emma tightly to his chest.

Emma winced as the sword pressed more firmly against her neck. "Move." She had no choice but to comply. She felt him jerk his head above her, and she saw the remaining pirates close in on Jones before she was stumbling forward, the nasty blackguard clipping her heels with his boots.

.

.

A strong protectiveness surged through Killian at the sight of Emma standing on her toes to escape the sharp blade, mingled with a palpable fury that threatened to blacken out his vision and send him into a manic haze wherein he would destroy each of the pirates with his bare hands. But there was nothing he could do about it at the moment, the futility of their situation crawling through his body like a million larvae chewing him from the inside out. No longer was this an opportunity for sport and to prove his skill to the woman he loved, now was the time for discretion, wisdom, and patience. He hated being patient when it meant his love's life on the line.

_Pick your battles_. That was a truism in swordplay as well as in life, and Killian had been a successful pirate long enough to know the difference. Out-numbered and out-armed, he knew these men would kill them so much as look at them. In fact, the only thing keeping them alive right now was Astley's hope that they'd fetch a price. Better to wait and see about making an escape later, and although his hands were itching to break a few necks, he wouldn't dare risk Emma's safety.

One of the pirates stepped forward to remove the dagger at Killian's belt and check for any other weapons, taking the small knife he always kept in his boot as well. Another pirate picked up their packs and they were all marching forward, minus the injured men, following the pirate who had Emma at sword-point, Killian carefully paying attention to landmarks for information on the lair's location.

They walked toward a cluster of bushes and boulders, shouldering through the foliage to emerge directly in front of a cleft in the rock face. It was a clever trick of the landscape—from the wandering eye it looked like no more than a solid boulder with scattered brush at its base. Emma's captor pressed her head down harshly, forcing her to enter through the low opening.

The rest of the group followed, and Killian was roughly shoved forward by the pirate carrying his packs. He nearly cracked his skull on the overhanging rock, and turned around to bark at the man, but held his tongue when the pirate pointed a dagger at his throat and bared his blackened teeth in a challenging half-grin. _Emma… Emma… You have to hold it together for her_.

They were led down a dark corridor, lit only by the occasional torch sitting in sconces along the cave wall. He could see different pathways leading off here and there, finally taking one that angled off to the right. They passed a chamber with a few tables, mugs strewn around and several decks of cards sloppily stacked. A few of the pirates in their entourage broke off the main body and entered that room. Killian continued following Emma's captor, eyes never leaving the broad-shouldered man, watching for any opportunity to gain an advantage.

None came. They arrived at a large iron door containing a barred window in it, small and square. The man in front of him passed around Emma, took out a large key and unlocked the heavy door, stepping back as Emma was pushed onto the floor, landing heavily. Another man forcefully removed Killian's jacket and then shoved him in after her. They slammed the door shut, the heavy bolt sliding into place with a resounding boom, plunging the chamber into nearly total darkness, except for a tiny patch of yellow streaming from the bars in the door. Getting his bearings, Killian wrinkled his nose briefly at the fetid odors of mold and filth; somewhere in the distance water steadily dripped.

Feeling his way toward her, Killian asked, "Swan, are you hurt?"

"No, I don't think so, just bruised." She was breathing heavily and he wondered if she was telling the whole truth.

He placed a hand on what he thought might be her shoulder.

"Hey, watch it, buddy. Let's not get grabby in the dark." Apparently that wasn't a shoulder, and he pulled his hand back.

"Sorry, Swan, merely attempting to offer some comfort." He couldn't keep the smirk out of his voice and he wondered what part of her body his hand had settled on, still feeling her softness tingling through his fingers, taking solace in knowing that if she was snapping at him, she was likely unhurt. "They took my weapons. Did they get your dagger? or the stone?" he asked, to assess their situation.

"The dagger, yes. The stone, no. I was able to move that to a more… er… um… secure location before we left the campsite." She sighed laboriously, and he saw the outline of her body shift slightly in her sitting position.

"Indeed!" He chuckled, grateful for the distraction from his worry about how they were going to get away. "I'd love nothing so much as to hear more about _that_, lass."

"I'm sure. So what now?" She sounded resigned and tired, and he wanted nothing more than to pick her up and whisk her away from the danger they were in. Her trust in him made him feel noble and desirous of remaining worthy of her confidence, but he once again felt the responsibility of that trust sitting heavily on his shoulders. _Is this how it feels to have a wife to protect?_ The question came to his mind unbidden, and he hadn't the time to give it the attention it deserved, regrettably, but he had every intention of entertaining those thoughts, as soon as the danger had passed.

"I suppose we wait 'til morning and see if we can learn of their plans. Perhaps make a run for it when they transport us. Might as well try for some sleep until then."

"Could you honestly sleep?"

"With you, love? I could only be so lucky." He saw her head turn toward him, and could feel her dispassionate gaze skittering across his skin. Sighing, he kicked at the wall, trying not to sound hopeless. "Perhaps not, but it would do no harm to rest. We have no weapons, no way out of this dungeon, no way to run far enough away, or fast enough with the whole place surrounded. So unless you have magic up your sleeve, we're stuck here for the time being."

He felt her startle more than saw it, and turned back toward her, the outline of her mouth tightening just a hair, barely noticeable in the almost non-existent light.

"Do you have a better idea?" he asked.

"I might."

.

.

Emma felt him move toward her, kneeling on one leg, the heat from his proximity coming off him in waves in contrast to the freezing cell. She wondered how he would react to what she was about to tell him. "Listen, I didn't want to bring this up, but I think now may be as good a time as any. Can you see me?"

"Somewhat. Not clearly though." He inched closer, and she could feel his penetrating gaze go straight through her.

The pupils of their eyes slowly shrank as a small light brightened in the center of her palm, a round red glow that lit the area around them exactly like that of the small torch hanging on the wall outside the chamber, as though her hand contained a piece of well-oiled cloth wrapped around a fragment of wood. The light reflected off the stone walls, undulating in patterns that would have been cozy if they'd been at a campsite rather than in a prison, and revealed a large chamber with at least a twenty foot ceiling, the back half still shrouded in darkness.

"Swan… You have magic?" His eyes widened in disbelief and he fell back with a thump, his legs pushing out in front of him. "You _are_ full of surprises, milady." He smirked at her, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

"Yeah, thanks. I'm still in training, though, and I'm not very good. But I was thinking maybe we could use it to get out of here." She stared into the palm of her hand, the ball of light glowing happily without emitting any heat.

He furrowed his brow in question. "Why in the name of all gods did you not use it before we were captured?"

She tried to keep the frustration out of her tone, but failed. "What about 'I'm not very good' did you not understand? I'm not sure I could take on all those men at once, and the last thing I want them to know is that I have magic. They'd just kill me quick and ask questions later."

As if they had heard her, their boisterous sounds increased, the pirates shouting, singing and laughing loudly, and Emma was reminded of her night spent above the tavern when she'd first arrived in the Enchanted Forest.

"Fair point," he conceded, and she was reminded of his comment on the beanstalk, the pleasant memory filling her warmth. "So what can you do, lass?"

"So far I can mostly manipulate the elements. And the rest just sort of comes and goes." She shrugged a little, almost embarrassed under his warm gaze.

He rested his forearms on his knees and tapped his fingers together. "We need a plan. Do you think you could take on two or three of them at a time?"

"Probably, but no more than that."

"Do you think you can unlock the door?"

"I can only try. But would it be a good idea to do that now? How would we ever get past so many pirates?"

"Then let's wait a bit. My guess is that the fellows are enjoying a night of merrymaking, and will be well past prime in a few hours..."

He trailed off and turned his head. She followed his gaze and was surprised to see a couple of children, a boy and a girl, slowly inching their way toward the light, fascinated by the golden glow.

Although unhampered by their shapeless clothing, they moved slowly, tentatively, shrinking into themselves like flowers collapsing after they've finished blooming, the way children move who've been abused or have reason to be afraid. Emma knew that cowering hunch very well, having experienced it herself throughout her own difficult childhood. She knew the best course of action was to slowly gain their trust, let them know they were safe.

Killian placed a hand on Emma's arm, indicating with that simple touch his pledge to protect all three of them to the best of his ability.

"Hello there, lad, lass." He removed his hand and sat back unobtrusively. "I'm Killian and this is Emma… How long have you been here?" he asked with an unassuming yet interested air.

The two children gaped at them, eyes haunted and unsure, but had lost some of the fear present in their movements.

Jones kept his voice slow and steady. "We're prisoners… like you." He gave a relaxed smile, his face mild and attentive. Watching him, she was suddenly struck with the knowledge that she would have trusted him if she had met him at their age. Children knew instinctively when adults meant to harm them, but there was nothing remotely threatening about Jones, never mind that he was a pirate.

The boy moved his mouth as though to speak, but it was several moments before Emma could make out the words that were no louder than rough whispers. "I… I don'… know. I think… several days… los' track…" The boy trailed off and looked down at the girl.

"Are you brother and sister?" Emma asked.

The boy nodded.

"How old are you?" Emma smiled gently at them, hoping they could hear the sincerity in her tone.

The boy poked a grubby finger at himself and then at his sister. "I'm ten and she's seven."

Killian nodded and asked, "Would you like to come closer to the light?"

The children glanced at each other; the corner of the boy's mouth twitched with eagerness that he tried but failed to hide, his eyes lighting up with the prospect. His sister was much less guarded, smiling tentatively.

"How long can you keep that up, lass?" Jones asked Emma, as the children moved forward with carefully contained reserve.

"Not terribly long, but maybe long enough to get some answers about the pirates' patterns." She gave him a knowing look, and Killian nodded once in understanding. The children entered the circle of light, edging closer to it, as though to get warm, but keeping very close to each other, holding hands, still not quite trusting the two adults.

"When we find a way out of here, we're taking you with us. Don't worry. We'll get you back home." Killian spoke with conviction, but they didn't acknowledge his words, just kept staring fixatedly at the glowing orb, the shadows of their sunken eyes hiding a deeply embedded fear that had been replaced with a measure of relief.

"Where are you from?" Emma asked.

The boy spoke again. "Um, a couple of days' walk from here. We were in town selling eggs and Mam's jams when we were taken."

"I didn't think there were any nearby towns." Killian said, stroking his chin, his beard rasping under his hand.

The boy shook his head. "Our town is about four days walk northeast from here. We live in between here and there."

"Well, it just so happens we're traveling in that direction as well. We'll drop you on our way as soon as we get out of here." The way he said it made Emma wonder if they were in fact traveling Northeast, but she didn't question him.

The boy smiled for the first time since joining them. "We'd be much obliged, sir."

"What are your names?" Emma asked.

"I'm John, and this is Kenna." He spoke matter of factly, as though he had made a decision to trust them and was going to follow it through.

"Nice to meet you both." Emma smiled widely. "Now, if we're going to get out of here, we need to know how often the… guards… come in here." She didn't know if the children knew they had been abducted by pirates, and didn't want them to be unnecessarily afraid.

"It's not more than once a day." The boy pointed to the black ceiling. "There's a crack in the rock up there, let's in a bit of light during the day. The guard comes when the light is at its strongest."

"Hmm. Can you tell if that's a quiet time of day? Are there any other sounds in the surrounding chambers and corridors?"

"Not like now. It's generally very quiet once the sun comes up."

Emma thought for a minute. The pirates must be on a nocturnal schedule if they were up all night and quiet during the day. But planning an escape in the middle of daylight was risky. It'd be better to escape at night, when they had a better chance of using the cover of darkness to get away, especially with two small children traveling with them.

"Listen, I have to put this away, too much time drains my energy, and I want to save it for our escape. We should try to get some rest." She smiled again, softening her features, her protective maternal instinct kicking into high gear. She remembered both times she'd been separated from Henry, and could only imagine the pain their parents must be going through.

The coldness from the stone began seeping through her leather-clad bottom and she shivered. Killian laid a brief hand on her, acknowledging her chill, but with nothing to do about it, he leaned up against the wall, stretching his legs out and opening his arm. The little girl hurried forward, snuggling in close to him, his arm wrapping protectively over her. What Emma wouldn't give to be seven again.

The boy looked at the little girl with narrowed eyes, but as soon as he saw her relax into Jones's warmth, he moved to sit next to his sister, carefully leaning his head down on Jones's arm.

Emma settled herself gingerly on the boy's other side before letting the globe wink out.

Within moments, the sounds of the children's quiet snores echoed through the cold chamber. Emma shivered a little, tucking herself closer to the boy, hoping to create some body heat between the two of them, the bones of his frail body sticking into her side.

"Got any good stories to pass the time, Swan?" Jones's whispering voice rose out of the blackness, almost disembodied.

"I was just thinking about Henry. He was ten years old when I met him."

"Come again?"

"He was ten. I gave him up for adoption… to someone else to care for him… after he was born." She answered his unspoken question. "I was young and in jail, I had no way to support a child."

"And the child's father? Isn't it his job to care for his family?" His voice had hardened.

"His father was the reason I was in jail," she said with as little emotion as possible.

He was quiet for a minute, considering. "Very bad form indeed," he whispered under his breath. Then a little louder, "And you found him when he was ten? Why didn't you look for him before that?"

"Actually, he found me. It was a closed adoption. Legally I couldn't look, and with a felony charge on my record, I couldn't risk being sent to jail again."

"Felony charge. Like a price on your head?

"Something like that," she smiled into the gloom, remembering what it was like when she'd first met Hook and he didn't get any of her modern references.

After a couple of minutes, he asked, "What's your boy like?"

She rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to generate as much friction as she could to warm herself. "Observant and quick-witted, funny and sarcastic. You'd like him."

A smile was in his voice with his reply. "Prehaps so... How old is he now?"

"He just turned sixteen," she said, chuckling lightly.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I was just remembering his birthday party. He insisted on a giant bash and invited the whole town. It turned into a block party barbecue, and everyone stayed up all night celebrating, shooting off fireworks. Everyone had a great time."

"I can guess what a block party is, but fireworks?"

"Um… like small flames of fire shooting into the sky before exploding into lots of different colors."

"I thought your world didn't have magic."

"It's not magic. It's a mixture of chemicals that spark when lit with a flame."

She smiled again at the memory. That was the first time Killian had seen fireworks and he'd been convinced they were magic. He had been holding her, stroking her belly, whispering about magic and what if, what if they made magic together? Her brows had shot up in question and he had turned her slightly so she could look up at him, love darkening his beautiful blue eyes, tiny flames dancing in his pupils in time with the booming explosions. He was so corny but by God, she loved him with all her heart, and to know he wanted a baby too? She'd pulled his face down to hers and kissed him senseless with her yes.

A tear slipped down her face, landing over her lips, the saltiness of it bringing her out of her memory before his words did.

"Henry sounds quite entertaining… Must take after his mother." He didn't bother to hide the admiration in his voice, and Emma choked back the tears that threatened to unleash, knowing this wasn't the time or the place.

"Like me? No. Henry has a way of bringing people together. He knows things, things a kid shouldn't know. And he often grasps my feelings before I do," she said, swallowing thickly and struggling to keep her voice level.

"Perceptive lad."

"Yeah, you don't know the half of it," she said with a sarcastic edge to her voice.

"Why don't you enlighten me, Swan?" His tone was completely sincere, but with a catch of something that made her narrow her eyes, even though he couldn't see her.

She chuffed, reading him as well as he often read her. "Oh no, I'm not falling for that. With your silver tongue, you'll have me admitting to all kinds of future events, and _that_ could definitely have consequences."

She heard his light chuckle. "You're too quick by half, lass."

"Would you really try to trick me into revealing your future?" she asked, surprised that he'd admitted to her calling him out.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call it trickery…" She saw his free hand rise to rub at the back of his neck. "Just think of it from my perspective, Swan. You have the power to steer me away from danger, regret, or walk me right into it. So this situation begs the question… how well do you know me?"

She could see his point and would concede that much, but she couldn't give him so much information that he used it to change his actions.

"Let's just say I know you very well… But I have a question for you…" He didn't say anything, waiting patiently, and she became aware of her heart pumping thickly in her ears. "Do you trust me?"

A bawdy song echoed through the thick door, a backdrop for the steady plip-plop of the water dripping somewhere in the chamber, and it was a long minute before he replied, "I like to think of myself as a good judge of character, yours included. So yes, I trust you, Swan… implicitly. And I'd bet my life on you. Indeed, I believe I've been doing that very thing since we began this little adventure." He sounded satisfied with his answer.

She inhaled slowly, allowing her lungs to completely fill with air before releasing it. _Okay, this is the hard part_. Drawing in the edges of herself tight and close, pinching off the threatening emotions, and swallowing around the lump that was trying to cut off her air supply, she said evenly, "Then trust me when I tell you that it's Milah you need to pursue. Milah is the one. And I know this isn't going to make any sense, but when the Dark One comes for the bean, give it to him, don't fight." Emma might not be able to save his heart, but maybe she could save his hand.

"Again with Milah. I thought we covered this." He sounded disappointed with her, which was worse than anger any day. With Killian, anger flared hot and quick, but he held onto disappointment, the shadow of it hurting him and in turn causing her heart to ache for him.

She shivered from the chill in the room, or maybe from the broken discouragement in his voice. She felt very cold, and very alone, and a part of her wanted to scream in protest that it wasn't fair she should have to keep doing this, that she should have to tell her true love to find another.

Hot tears filled her eyes, threatening to spill. "But you've only just met," she countered, "You two are destined to have a love that will surpass centuries." There, she'd done it, and she should feel relieved, but her heart was fracturing into a million pieces and she didn't have the energy to locate each one and begin the laborious process of putting it back together.

He didn't say another word that night, and if she wouldn't have been so cold, and if she'd been alone, she would have gone to the darkest corner of the chamber and wailed herself to sleep, hoping she'd feel whole again in the morning. As it was, she could only sit in the near darkness and fight the raging battle to contain her grief and keep quiet so he wouldn't know her own internal combat. All she could do was to allow her tears to fall silently, unchecked.

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**Review?**


	12. Escape

_Hi Everyone, welcome back! Thanks for all the wonderful comments. I love how involved some of you are becoming; I hope I don't disappoint! And thanks to the clever lethemorai for beta-reading!~DD_

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Chapter 12: Escape

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He had awoken with the sun all his life, and today was no different. Killian felt the familiar pull of the dawn, lugging him toward the world of consciousness, ready to deposit him without a backward glance. In his younger days he had sometimes fought it, but he had long since reached that place where he knew there was nothing to be gained by it except disappointment—he'd never once been able to fall back to sleep, no matter what the night's activities had held. This morning was no exception; he was exhausted, having spent most of the remaining night listening to the children's steady breathing, and Emma's rustlings. She had cried herself to sleep the night before, quietly shaking with sobs he couldn't explain, except to hope that perhaps her affection for him had grown more deeply than she'd anticipated. He couldn't have slept more than an hour or two.

He became aware of a warm weight in his lap, and without moving his head, he opened his eyes to find that Kenna—probably seeking warmth—had crawled onto his outstretched legs, her tiny body shaped like a cooked shrimp, her head resting against her hand placed on his stomach. He had dropped one hand protectively over her curled back, and the other around the boy, who had shifted closer to lean into his side, replacing his sister. Both children were relaxed with the kind of sleep that comes after pure exhaustion, and he realized that it was likely a result of feeling safer than they had since they were captured. Emma was leaning against Killian's arm, and his head rested against her own. To the casual observer, they must look like they had all collapsed into one another in the depths of the night.

He inhaled deeply, smiling when his nose twitched from the tickle of Emma's hair, just taking her in, memorizing her scent, allowing himself a luxury he was sure was just that, a luxury. She was so confident she knew what was best for his life, and he knew she meant well, but he'd long been out of the habit of allowing anyone else to decide his fate. That day had died with Liam, the day he had declared himself a free agent in every sense of the word.

He tilted his eyes downward. Her arms were tucked between her body and the boy's, as though she were looking for warmth from that emaciated body, when in actuality, she had to be lending quite a bit of her own warmth to the boy.

_Do you trust me?_

_Implicitly._

The conversation from the night before echoed in his mind, selfishly stealing away the comfort of her proximity as she pressed into his arm. He hadn't been lying to her. He did trust her, but that didn't negate the fact that she was still hiding something, and he was determined to find out what it was.

_You two are destined to have a love that will surpass centuries._

He could tell by the way she'd spoken that she fully believed every word. But he didn't agree, couldn't agree. Milah was beautiful and sassy and amusing… but love? She was also unusually tortured about her life, unsure of what she desired, torn between love for her son and a need to escape her suffocating husband. He couldn't imagine falling so hard for a woman who didn't know her own mind. Not to mention the fact that Milah brought out the worst in him, the part that had surfaced after Liam's death. That man had been harsh and brash, a drunken sot that cared for no one but himself. He had to admit it could be exciting to give in to his baser inclinations for a time, but he had no desire to remain that way, and Emma brought out the dashing, protective seaman, ready to rescue a damsel in distress—as she'd called herself—and be a hero. She made him want to be better than he was. Sod Milah.

A reedy shaft of light was now piercing through the gloom, and he could tell by the color that it was just past dawn. Emma shifted, wincing as she moved her stiff arms and legs and sat upright, glancing back at his arm with a wry look that tugged on one side of her mouth. The children only sighed and settled deeper into their rest. The rest of the cave was quiet.

"Morning, Swan. How'd you like your feather bed?" he whispered, moving slowly while he sat upright so as not to disturb the children.

She smirked and settled back heavily with a grunt. "Probably as much as you enjoyed yours."

He grinned widely. "Oh I hope so; you were in mine all night."

She shook her head with a snicker and rolled her ankles, the joints cracking loudly in the still chamber. "In your dreams maybe."

He shrugged, grimacing as he slanted his head left and then right, stretching his neck. "Not to worry, lass, I'll take what I can get."

Her stomach grumbled loudly and they both chuckled quietly. "Hungry, Swan?" he teased, "Let me just ring my first mate to bring us breakfast in bed."

"Ooh, that'd be lovely," she yawned, "I'll have pancakes dripping with butter and maple syrup and a hot coffee with cream." She spread her hands on her outstretched thighs and lengthened her fingers. "Oof. I'll definitely be lodging a complaint with the manager of the place about the hospitality."

"Sounds productive. Let me know how it turns out, lass." He couldn't move much without dislodging the children, and a niggling restlessness began to tingle through his limbs as his brain registered that it was time to get up and get moving.

"Will do," she said, and then gestured to the children. "They like you, you know."

"Must be my ample charm," he said sarcastically.

She had leaned forward, stretching her back, but turned her head, regarding him. "Hmm… I imagine it's more than that."

He raised one brow and countered, "Is that a compliment I detect? Or are you afraid we're going to die and want to dole out your last words before we go?"

She ignored the comment, her face turning serious. "Who's Alistair Astley?"

He sighed heavily, and Kenna burrowed her tiny body into his stomach like a grub digging into fresh earth; he tightened his arm around her in reflex. "A ruthless pirate... You remember I told you I never deal in slaves? Well, he deals almost exclusively in them. That's where these two are bound, and you too if we don't get out of here. He also secures the cargoes of powerful interests, although I have no idea where he gets his support. He eludes capture by buying off the constables and harbor officials in the various kingdoms."

She frowned, looking down at the two peacefully sleeping children. "What's his beef with you?"

Her references could be so baffling at times and he drew his brows together in consternation. "Beef... You mean issue?"

She nodded and he continued, arching his back ever so slightly and then relaxing against the hard stone. "Met him in a tavern. We both like to play cards, and a mutual mate introduced us. We played for hours, pretty much a stalemate until he doubled down on the last game, betting his mother's wedding ring before calling it a night." Killian held up his little finger, the large ruby the color of coal in the dark chamber. "I won. He tried to claim trickery and the lot, but he couldn't prove I'd done anything untoward, not to mention the fact that he had been cheating too, but that was neither here nor there."

"Then I imagine he'd cut off your finger to get that ring back." Her lip curled in distaste.

"Quite possibly, but perhaps we won't give him the chance." He smiled at her, intending to bolster her confidence. A tentative smile passed over her lips in response, but stretched no further. Her beautiful mossy green eyes were dark gray in the dimness, but looked tired and unsure all the same. "Are you ready to attempt an escape?" he asked.

She shook her head and stood up, walking a few steps away and stretching her limbs more completely before whispering, "Let's make a plan and then wake them up. Something tells me they're going to need the rest."

"As you wish, lass," he replied, stiff and achy and anxious to get going.

====o0I0o====

The four of them stood next to the door of the chamber, a convoy of eager eavesdroppers nervously listening for the sounds of any pirates in the corridor. Hearing nothing, Jones nodded at Emma. It was time.

Emma took a deep breath, smiled at the two children beside her and closed her eyes, clearing her mind exclusively of any thoughts. The cave was completely devoid of human sounds, save the breathing of her three companions, her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. Her awareness began to expand: a small snake scurried near the entrance, a colony of bats chattered as they settled into a high corner of one of the large stone chambers, a few rats scurried amongst crates and barrels looking for crumbs. Honing in on the steadily dripping water that had lulled her to sleep earlier that morning, she allowed the sound to reverberate through her mind as the beat of her heart slowed to match each plop. She widened her legs, her toes gripping the floor through her boots, connecting herself to the elements around her. Instinct.

She felt the rush of magic as it flew from her, and opened her eyes, anxious to see what had been done. Three pairs of eyes turned from her toward the door with piqued interest, waiting. She too stared at the massive door. Nothing. _Damn_.

Killian broke the silence. "Perhaps you can try again?" he asked, eyes kind and expectant. The children looked at each other, unsure.

She rubbed her palms, sweaty with anxiety, against her thighs. "I don't know what went wrong." She walked away from them, racking her brain for what to try next.

The scraping sound of creaking wood brought her back. Jones and the children leaned forward slowly, together, like a television antenna adjusting itself to find the best frequency, all staring at the door with mouths gaping. She stepped closer, watching as the boards began to shrink and splinter, a thick mold growing over them. The mold darkened and gave way as the wood began to pull apart, turning gray and drying out, disintegrating before their eyes.

Jones looked back at her with the expression of a small boy on Christmas morning. "Swan! That was bloody brilliant!" He turned back to the door, just as the remnants of it collapsed to the floor in a quiet hiss, the iron hinges and lock landing heavily and sending up mushroom-shaped plumes of dust, before continuing their own slower degradation.

She didn't have time to register her successful use of magic before Jones was stepping over the pile of rubble and grabbing one of the sharper pieces of broken iron, taking the lead with the two children restlessly following behind; she brought up the rear. He paused at the end of the corridor, looking both ways before turning to the left and motioning for them to follow.

All was silent as they made their way through the cave, almost eerily so, the earth toned colors and intricate patterns of the rock formations rippling in the torchlight, beauty she hadn't noticed on the way in, understandably so. The thickness of the stone floor muted their footsteps along the path, even as the walls resounded lightly with them, the impenetrable fortress of solid rock peaceful, comforting like a blanket on a cold night, and threatened to dull her senses.

She jolted back to reality, stopping abruptly when John misjudged the curve of the wall partially blocking the path and tripped, falling forward into Kenna who in turn bumped into Jones. Jones darted out into the cross corridor just as one of the pirates was about to round the corner. He was young, and startled by their presence. Emma grabbed the two children by the shoulders and shoved them behind her.

"Uh… What are you doing out of th' hold?" he asked stupidly.

"Thought we'd go on an excursion, see what's to be seen." Jones replied enthusiastically. As quick as a wink, he grabbed the boy by the arm and twisted him around to hold him in a head lock, placing the jagged piece of the broken iron hinge up against his throat.

"Now you're going to tell us where to find our belongings, and you're going to do it quietly." He pressed the iron into the boy's neck, drawing a tiny dot of blood.

"I know who you are, and even if you get through me, you won't escape Cap'n Astley," he said through clenched teeth.

"I'm not here for a conversation, boy, I'm here for an answer. Best hurry it up or we'll leave you here in a heap and find out for ourselves." Jones jerked his arm tighter, the boy wincing when the metal scraped across his skin.

"Cap'n took your belongings. His chamber is that way." The boy pointed in the opposite direction of the exit and Emma felt her knees go to water with the thought of staying there any longer than necessary; there was no telling who else they'd run into.

Jones tightened his arm around the boy's throat, causing his face to turn the color of boiled beets as he was deprived of oxygen, his body crumpling to the floor in the heap Jones had promised.

"We'll stay together," Jones announced, looking first at Emma and then the children before leading them all in the direction the boy had indicated.

====o0I0o====

It worked out that they didn't come across Astley's lair quite so easily. The corridor ended in a fork, and Killian led them down the one on the right. It ended in a large chamber, no door, which housed several sleeping pirates arranged on shabby blankets and grimy pillows, haphazardly strewn about. A couple of them stirred and rolled over, but otherwise remained unaware of the small group's presence. Killian looked over at Emma and gestured with his thumb to quietly move back in the direction they'd come. He was rewarded with a sinister smile, her eyes suddenly glowing like bright emeralds. She had a plan.

He pulled the children with him as he stepped back, eyes locked on the beautiful lass before him, her long blond hair undulating like a belly dancer amidst the shadows of the firelight.

The hair on the back of his neck rose as she lifted her hands, and again he could feel the power build until, with a flick of her wrists, it left her in a thick pulse. His hands tightened involuntarily on the children's shoulders as he watched in fascination. At the base of the doorway to the chamber, two small stalagmites began to grow upward, increasing in height and breadth, while two stalactites grew down from the ceiling, silently pushing themselves through the air. Not a single pirate stirred.

As soon as the stone jail cell was complete, Emma twisted around in triumph, pride coursing through her. She threw her arms around Killian's neck, pressing her body against his side, burying her face in the collar of his shirt.

"I did it!" she whispered.

He smiled, removing his hand from Kenna's shoulder and resting it around Emma's back, holding her gently but almost stiffly, knowing she would bolt if he drew too much attention to himself and she became fully aware of what she was doing. He spoke into her hair, closing his eyes and holding his breath, savoring the softness of her flesh against his. "That you did, lass. Well done."

She only hugged him for a moment, but that moment was long enough to warm his stone-chilled skin and leave him with a yearning desire to share all her triumphs and sorrows all the days of his life.

====o0I0o====

They retraced their steps, this time taking the fork to the left, encountering no other wandering pirates. They found the chamber quite easily, leaving John and Kenna in the corridor with instructions to run in if they saw anyone. Killian strode in, Emma following, to see Alistair Astley sitting at a long table deep in thought, holding her dagger and tapping the fingers of his other hand on the table top. He glanced up in surprise when he saw them at the entrance, but quickly hid it behind an amused smile. The table was strewn with the contents of hers and Jones's packs, obviously having been rifled through.

"Ah, Jones, welcome. Please… come in," he said calmly, but with an underlying bewilderment he tried to hide behind pretension. He gestured them closer with a wave of his hand.

"We're leaving, Astley, kindly hand over the dagger and our things and we'll be on our way," Jones said with a certainty that brought a tiny smile to the corner of Emma's lips.

"Always so confident, Jones... Wonderful quality in a pirate." He brought his hand to his face to stroke his chin. "Perhaps we might come to a different arrangement. You work for me and I'll let the children go free."

"Now who's negotiating?" Jones inquired with a raised brow.

Astley laughed, setting down the dagger and placing both hands on the table as if to stand up. "Consider it a bargain, a transaction that could work in both our favors."

"I'm not much in the bargaining mood, Astley," Jones replied. Emma moved forward, taking her place at his side.

"I suggest you listen to him. We've already taken care of the rest of your crew, and you're the only one standing in our way," she said, trying to create the same air of nonchalance that Jones had affected.

Astley tilted his head in her direction as if just noticing she was there. "My crew? Well, that is a wonder," he said almost to himself before continuing in an ominous tone, "No matter. You'll not be going very far." He stood up then, reaching his hand under a stack of papers to reveal a gun, some kind of eighteenth century-looking pistol pointed right at Jones's chest.

Emma jerked, hoping the pirate was too focused on Jones to notice her recognition of the item in his hand. She didn't have time to think about where he might have gotten it, and started preparing herself to use magic, disheartened when it seemed to be building much more slowly this time.

Jones shook his head and spoke as if talking to a child, "You'll need more than a lavish dart thrower to stop us."

Astley's smile widened, but his eyes narrowed at the same time, the way an owl looks just before it's about to grab a juicy mouse.

Emma saw his hand quiver and shouted "No!" reacting instantly, instinctively, just like she'd been taught. She threw her hand up and forward, releasing a spray of magic that transformed into a hissing boa constrictor, flying straight for Astley's head, wrapping its broad body neatly around his face, covering his mouth, nose and throat. The pirate's last gasp of breath echoed loudly in the cavernous room.

Out of the corner of her eye, Emma happened to catch the twitch of Astley's finger on the trigger. She jumped on top of Jones, throwing him to the ground at the same time a loud "BOOM!" reverberated off the walls.

Emma's eardrums pulsed with the echo of the report, stunning her into inaction while she waited for her head to quit rebelling against the deafening blast.

"You know, Swan, all you have to do is ask. No need to attack." Killian wound an arm around her back, tracing a long line down her spine, making no attempt to get up, and she knew he would gladly keep her there.

She rolled her eyes and pushed back, swooning slightly as she gained her feet and stood up to assure herself that Astley was truly no longer a threat. He wasn't. His body lay crumpled at the base of his chair, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, the snake nowhere in sight.

John and Kenna must have run in when they heard the noise, and Emma turned to them while Jones stood up as well. "Are you two ok?" They nodded with wide dark-rimmed eyes and anxious faces. "You'll never have to worry about him again," she said, smiling. She opened her arms and they rushed her. She stumbled only a little, and they pressed their small bodies into hers, squeezing her in their thanks.

Jones had walked over to the table and donned his jacket, and began stuffing their packs with the rest of their belongings, shouldering the two burdens but leaving his hands free. When Emma turned to him, he presented her dagger, hilt first, over his arm. "Your dagger, milady," he said, admiration tickling his blue eyes into a crinkled smile.

"Thanks," she said quietly, holding his gaze longer than necessary. And although her heart had just begun to slow from the adrenaline rush, it sped up again, as if trying to jump out of her chest and wrestle Jones back to the floor all by itself. She took the dagger from him and then her pack, bending to strap on her cutlass and hide her flush.

"Shall we?" Jones asked the children, who nodded vigorously in response. He smiled and pushed off into the dark corridor.

The way out was fairly straight-forward, but Emma was finding it hard to concentrate, wondering if maybe she'd overdone the magic. She kept her eyes on the backs of John's and Kenna's feet, willing her own to follow.

They stopped and Emma looked up in surprise to see that Jones had halted several feet shy of the exit. She ambled up behind him, misjudging the distance, and put a hand on his shoulder to keep from stumbling into him. "What is it?"

"Another chamber. The way it's angled, I didn't notice it on the way in. Look."

She looked over his shoulder, following his gaze around the rock wall, the chamber revealing a cache of crates and barrels of cargo standing in the stone room. "M… must be their… horde." She struggled to take a deep breath, her air passages narrowing although she didn't understand why. "M… makes sense that it's close to the entrance." Her words felt like they were forming underwater, and her limbs suddenly felt unbearably heavy.

"Aye." He spoke with no inflection, just simple acknowledgment.

Emma knew what he was thinking, knew he struggled with the desire to pilfer through the cache and steal anything of worth, but her mind could only form the words, "We can't, Jones."

Her legs ceased to hold her up anymore and she slipped to the floor, barely registering Jones as he turned around to answer, his face going from bemused at her implication, then confused when he saw she wasn't standing behind him anymore, to horrified when he saw that she'd collapsed.

"Swan, you're injured!" He crouched down next to her, a fiery pain shooting through her shoulder when he lifted her to assess the extent of the damage.

"Am I?" His face was going out of focus and she felt dreadfully tired all of a sudden. She closed her eyes. So good. Just rest.

"Gods, Emma… We'll just get this…" She caught the torment in his voice and an image of his loving face formed perfectly in her mind's eye. Then all was blackness.

.

.

Killian's heart stopped beating and he gaped at the still form of his love for who knew how long, for everything is measured in the span of a heartbeat, and his had simply ceased. When it had decided to resume its regular pace, time started up again, moving unevenly in spurts and drawls.

He pushed away the horror that threatened to overwhelm him, trying to get to that place of calm detachment that would allow him to deal with her wound rationally. He was close, but not quite there. He carefully propped Emma against his left leg and her head lolled limply to the side. The sight of his Swan, listless and weak, nearly stopped his heart for a second time and he wanted to curse the gods for this turn of bad luck, but he didn't have time for any of that. He opened her vest, pushing it back to reveal her blood-stained shirt with a tiny ragged hole in the shoulder. _Gods, this can't be happening_. He moved her forward a little, bracing her on his right arm, looking for any kind of exit wound. Sure enough, there was a tiny hole in the leather.

"John, help me get this off!" he shouted, supporting Emma's body while the young boy gingerly removed her vest.

Laying her back against his leg, he used his fingers to tear the fabric away from the wound, grateful that she'd passed out and couldn't feel the pain of his jostling.

"John, you and Kenna start looking through the crates and see if you can find any material. Look for any cloth-wrapped packages." The boy nodded, grabbing his sister's hand and running into the chamber.

Killian had never before seen the weapon Astley held, but could easily see the damage it had done. The dart had gone clean through her shoulder, leaving a large exit wound on her upper back. Rivulets of blood trailed into her shirt. A thick coil of fear wrapped itself around his neck as surely as the snake had wrapped Astley's. He needed to stop the bleeding as quickly as possible.

"Sir, we've found some cloth." John said, frightened but intent.

"Good. Tear it into long thin pieces for me and hand them to me one by one." Killian tried to wait patiently, every second lasting minutes, while her lifeblood flowed over his leg. The sound of tearing cloth echoed down the corridor, shredding Killian's nerves as sure as if a knife had been used on the over-stimulated bundles of fibers.

John handed the first length to Kenna who in turn gave it to Killian while John continued tearing strips. It was a beautiful white silk, soft and sumptuous, just like her; Killian wadded it up and pressed it firmly against her back. When Kenna handed him the second piece he began winding it around Emma's shoulder, keeping as much pressure on the wound as he could. The third he wound around her chest and so on, until her upper torso resembled the next unfortunate meal of a very large spider.

Bandaging done, he checked her breathing, sighing in relief at the steadiness of it. He placed his arm around her waist, careful to avoid the wound, and tried to rouse her. "Swan, Swan. Wake up, love." He shook her gently, willing her to open her eyes.

She did. "Killian, wh… what happened?" Perplexed, her brows furrowed as her eyes attempted to focus on his face. He knew she had been successful when her expression softened, green eyes filling with such love that he gasped from the intensity of it. She frowned. "Babe, what's wrong? Tell me."

Killian's heart started beating wildly. _Babe?_ Last he checked friends didn't call each other babe. As much as he would have loved to continue that line of thought, they needed to get out of there in case anymore of Astley's men showed up unexpectedly.

"Your shoulder was hit, love. I've bandaged you up…" She looked down at her shoulder, face pinching as though she only just realized it was bothering her. "… and we need to get out of here. You're bleeding…"

She looked back up at him, confusion giving way to remembrance. She inhaled deeply, pursing her lips in pain. "Right. Just a minute, though, maybe I can stop the bleeding."

"Can you heal yourself, love?" he asked, hopeful.

"Maybe. I'm just so tired." She inhaled again, holding her breath a moment before exhaling it very slowly. A calmness settled over her and he thought he felt the stirrings of her magic. "I can't." She dropped her head back into his arm and closed her eyes, frustrated with herself.

He hated to see her like that. She was such a bloody wonder and she should be proud of all she had accomplished. "Swan, it's alright, I'll help you."

He meant he'd help her get up and walk out of there, but her eyes slanted over to his face as though he had said something profound. "You can, you know. Here, take my hands." She leaned forward slightly, allowing him to come out from behind her as she supported her own weight in her sitting position. She took his hands, their coldness burning into his skin, and he watched her face, pale in the flickering torchlight.

"Clear your mind and just… just… I don't know how to explain it." She was breathing heavily and squinted around the corridor as if she might find the words painted on the walls. "Just _be_ with me. Does that make any sense?" she asked, nearly defeated.

He smiled. "Aye, that it does, lass." He didn't know how he knew what she was asking, but he did just the same. He glanced over at the children, regarding them with something akin to doubt, and then back at Emma, his Emma, who he had come to love more than life itself. He cleared his mind, releasing a slow breath of his own. The air around them began to fill with something prickly like static, different from the magic he'd felt from her before, and his eyes fastened on hers, unwavering, baring his soul from their depths. She smiled in acknowledgment and then she was drawing him in, siphoning his energy… no, his love... out through his fingertips and into her hands. She took it, held it, gentled it, and handed it back, all through the inimitable connection of their locked gazes, emerald green marrying with cerulean, the resulting color that of a blue glass goblet sitting in a sunny windowsill, casting its own azure tint to anything beheld through the glass.

_Pop_. Her magic released and they both jolted backward; the only thing keeping them upright was their grip on each other's hands.

"That's better," she said, releasing him and rolling her shoulder down and around to check the wound.

Killian stared at her in astonishment, still not quite sure what had just happened, but aware nonetheless that it was big and it was life-changing. Pressing his thoughts aside for later contemplation, he stood up, offering her his hand. "Come, love, let's get out of here."

She took his proffered hand and stood up with a wide smile. "Gladly."

* * *

**Review?**


	13. Coals of Fire

_Welcome back, everyone! Thanks for all the reads, follows and favs. You guys are awesome! And thanks to my guest reviewers who I can't thank in a PM-feedback is always appreciated.~DD_

_Beta-read by the clever lethemorai._

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Chapter 13: Coals of Fire

* * *

_AT dawn undeRtake the trek._

_The swan, she toUches your Neck._

_LEt the stone be your guide,_

_And swalLow yOur Pride,_

_This adVenture, no more than a flEck._

Emma read the inscription etched into the face of the large boulder for the second time, an icy chill crawling up her spine like a cautious inchworm, its touch radiating through each vertebra and its subsequent nerve connections, until she was tingling from head to toe, and unable to shake the feeling that this was personal. She and Killian stood at the mouth of a tunnel, indicated quite clearly on the map by the tiny bird drawing she could only assume was meant to be a swan. The entrance hadn't been difficult to find at all; the gaping maw of the opening expanded black as hell in front of them amidst the rest of the gray rock and surrounding forest. Oddly enough she felt no fear, and realized that it was perhaps because Jones made her feel as safe as _her_ Killian did.

The light was fading fast, and she looked over at Jones, his mouth fixed in a resolute line as he concentrated on the wording of the inscription, eyes squinting as though he were convinced the message held more information than what was gleaned at first glance.

"Hey, what are you thinking?" she asked, touching his arm lightly to get his attention.

"I'm not sure." He continued looking at the words a moment longer before turning to her, "But no way around it, we camp here for the night," he said determinedly. He opened his pack, searching for something and then stilled, staring into the bag with a shake of his head. "Bloody hell!"

"What is it?" Emma asked, and crouched down beside him. He didn't respond right away and she bumped him lightly with a teasing grin. "Yo, Jones."

He reached down into the bag and pulled out a pile of iridescent beans. "We were very particular about not accepting payment for the return of her children, and the blasted woman gave them to us anyway!"

Miriam Johnson, wife of Errol Johnson, farmer, weaver, trapper, John and Kenna's mother, and guardian of the large beanstalk that reached for the sky about fifty yards from her homestead was said blasted woman. When they'd arrived at the Johnson farm, the two parents had emerged dazedly from their work aroused by the shouts of their exuberant children. Gaunt and bedraggled, they had the appearance of people who were staring into the faces of the ghosts of those they'd long since lost.

Once Miriam had recovered from the shock of her children's return, having ruffled their hair and hugged them and cried over them and patted them and overall assured herself of their actual existence—Emma thought she might have even pinched Kenna at one point—she had set about bustling over Emma and Jones, offering payment first, which they'd both declined, and then a meal, a wash, and a bed for the night. The latter had been accepted with gratitude, especially the wash on Emma's part, and they had spent a delightful evening hearing all about the Johnson's giant friends and the arrangement they'd made as keepers-of-the-base-of-the-stalk. Or at least, that's what Miriam called her small family. Whenever anyone approached the beanstalk, one of the Johnsons would reach a hand into the heart of the stalk's base, which in turn sent a fast-growing shoot through its center to emerge at the top in time to warn the giants of unknown visitors. The giants in turn provided beans or small pieces of treasure for discrete sale to keep the family's farm afloat.

"I can't believe she's so stubborn! Ok, well, maybe I can. What are you going to do with them?" Emma asked, watching as the beans caught the last rays of the setting sun and sparkled in Jones's hand.

"As far as I'm concerned, half of these are yours," he said seriously. "I suppose I'll hold onto mine for awhile and sell to the highest bidder. Oh, and I'll save an extra for the Dark One." He held her gaze unwaveringly, and she thought she saw resentment in his eyes, commenting without words that he was well aware there was more to the story than she had shared. "What will you do with your lot?" he asked tiredly, glancing back down into his hand.

She stood up and rolled a pebble back and forth under the toe of her boot, uncomfortable, still feeling the remains of his trenchant gaze from a moment before. "I guess I could take them back to Storybrooke. There are quite a few people who might be interested in returning to the Enchanted Forest." A picture of her parents formed in her mind, and she wondered if this was the chance David and Mary Margaret had been waiting for, to return home and reclaim their kingdom. And she could be the one to make that possibility a reality, give them something in return for the love they'd always shown her.

"I knew you'd been here before," he said almost to himself, then louder, "And Storybrooke, you say? Is that the name of your town?" He raised an inquisitive but sharp brow, a mocking cast to his normally gentle eyes in recognition of having achieved a small measure of unguarded information from her, as if he thought it was the only way he'd ever learn anything about her. He dropped the beans back in his sack, retrieved his flint and set about making a fire, impatiently waiting for an answer.

Disconcerted, Emma replied evenly with narrowed eyes, "Nice try, Jones. I'm not giving up anything until I have some insurance."

His hands stilled, face turning halfway toward her with a brief frown before his mouth settled into a wry smile. "Insurance? Then you _do_ plan on sharing something about yourself eventually? I'm waiting with bated breath, Swan," he said tersely, and he set about his task with pursed lips and renewed vigor.

"Well, there're no guarantees I'll be able to get that insurance, so I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you." She scraped her boot in the dirt, forming a flat spot and a pile of dust next to it, unsure how to respond to his annoyance.

"Of course, lass, I meant it merely as a matter of form," he said, and struck the flint a hard blow that produced a large spark, cursing when it singed his fingers.

Emma walked away, scanning the perimeter of the area, taking her time gathering firewood to give Jones a few minutes to recover from his irritation at what she assumed was her lack of information. She chose several larger branches, including some broken pieces of a rotten log, half eaten by worm larvae. The darkness gathered shyly, tiptoeing its way into the beautiful forest as if afraid to disturb the vegetation and creatures it encountered, and Emma paused to watch the lengthening shadows. The chilly night air brushed against her skin and wiped away the tangle of emotions from the last several days, most of which centered around Jones. She sighed deeply, and reluctantly walked back to camp to bring her collected branches to Jones, who haphazardly tossed a few on the fire, deposited the rest into a pile, and began carelessly pulling out their dry rations for a makeshift supper. Apparently she hadn't given him enough time to recover.

She sat down wearily a couple of feet from him, giving him some space, but very aware of his agitated state. He didn't say a word, which was unlike him, his entire body thrumming with a barely perceptible energy, as though he were hovering on the edge of a fight or flight response.

The flames danced merrily, consuming the dry wood in greedy mouthfuls and dispelling the chill. A sliver of a crescent moon smiled down at them, lending a bit of its meager light to shed a faintly luminescent glow over the boulders and trees of the surrounding area. Full-bellied, Emma should have felt content, but Jones's tight-lipped answers and bristling attitude had stolen any serenity she might have felt from the starlit sky and the placid landscape.

"What's wrong with you?" she blurted out, unable to handle his broodiness any longer.

He sat very still and the thrumming in his body intensified until she thought he might explode with some pent-up emotion she couldn't quite identify.

"Explain that weapon of Astley's," he said abruptly, turning to her with a pointed gaze that brooked no room for an evasive answer.

She furrowed her brow in confusion at his unexpected demand and replied haltingly, "It's called a gun... It's from my world—I have no idea how he got it—and it uses a small explosion to shoot bullets… balls of metal… at its target. At that close range, it went right through my shoulder, but if I'd been any further away you might have had to fish the bullet out of the wound."

"I've never seen anything so powerful, or destructive. The wound on your back…once I'd peeled away your shirt… gods, Emma, if you didn't have magic, I don't know how you would have survived the blood loss," he said gruffly. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned back to the fire, repressing strong emotion.

So that was it; he was upset about the gunshot. "Hey, I'm ok. We got lucky." His jaw clenched tight and his hands formed fists around his bent knees. "Jones… Killian… Look at me," she pleaded.

He swung his face toward her, blue eyes dark with torment. "Lucky?! You could have died, Swan!"

She reached for him instinctively, no more able to stop herself than if he had been Henry needing comfort. But he shook his head almost imperceptibly, eyes hardening as he stared into the fire, and she sat back, giving him time to collect himself.

"About four years ago, my son was stolen and taken to Neverland," she said, and she saw his head turn toward her out of the corner of her eye.

"Pan wanted him. Said he had the heart of the truest believer and intended to steal it and claim it for his own, ensuring his survival. He attempted to corrupt Henry, to turn him into a lost boy. But Henry wasn't lost, he was loved, and so Pan was unsuccessful. But we would never have been able to defeat Pan if it hadn't been for you. You took us to Neverland on the Jolly, risked your life and your beloved ship to save my son, who you'd only known for a short time. You, Killian, made it possible. It was the beginning of a very special friendship." She smiled gently at him, knowing what she risked, but figuring at this point that he deserved to know something about how much he meant to her.

"That's nothing more than good form, Swan," he said in a self-deprecating tone.

"It was more than that, Killian. It was loyalty and compassion, love and devotion. And none of us deserved that from you after the way you'd been treated." That wasn't the whole truth, but her intention was to cheer him up.

"Love?" he asked quietly and intently. The flicking flames highlighted his cheekbones and strong jaw, and she saw that his face had softened with the inquiry.

Leave it to him to hang on the one word she probably should have left out. She swallowed thickly, her belly doing tiny flip-flops. "It's going to be a cold night. How close to the fire do you think we can sleep without risking our bedding?"

====o0I0o====

The air had become downright frigid within a couple of hours. The lengthened shadows from the waning firelight stretched and swayed, and Killian couldn't help but feel the inexorable pull of that wide open tunnel that gaped and sucked like a whirlpool, with no concept of what it was taking into itself, seeking only to devour and destroy.

Emma had long since unrolled her bedding on the other side of the fire and pulled the blanket up to her chin, facing away from him and curled into a tight ball. He watched her sleeping form, the rise and fall of the blanket as she breathed, assuring himself once again that she was alive and safe. She shook briefly, and he knew she was cold, so he rose and spread his own blanket over her, smiling at how nice it was to fret over her, and more importantly, how nice it was to have her fret over him, recognizing her account of Neverland as her attempt to cheer him up.

He had been walking next to her all day, following her with watchful eyes, pondering Astley's infernal weapon that had injured his Swan, his misery growing with every step as his brain finally caught up on the activities of the past couple of days. As long as the children were present, he could forgo the assault of emotion, but now they were safe, and he had been alone once again with Emma _and_ his thoughts.

At the time of her injury, he'd been forced to thrust all the fear and horror deep within himself, unable to handle the possibility of losing her. He'd kept that acute anxiety well in hand until earlier that evening when he'd seen her roll her shoulders and sigh with contentment as she paused in her firewood gathering, and the panicked emotions had sprung up like seawater through a leak, flooding the compartments of his heart utterly and entirely, and sinking him instantly back into the keen despair he'd felt when he held her bloodied body in his hands.

He wasn't sure why he hadn't let her comfort him. Normally, he'd leap at any chance to fall into Emma's arms, but he had felt too exposed to allow her to share in those emotions, too raw when he couldn't be sure if she'd ever admit to her own growing affection.

At least he could be sure of that. His doubts about her passion for him had been dashed by the look in her eyes when she'd first woken from his hasty bandaging, mind clouded from the shock of her wound. And then again when they'd used magic together, and she'd taken a part of him, drawing love through him like a sieve, the air around them practically crackling with it—it couldn't have been only his feelings he'd detected.

But it was her words that circled around his brain like a gull circling an object of interest, a lifeline to his drowned heart.

"_Babe, what's wrong?"_

Babe. The gull struck the water and snatched the line, dragging it relentlessly upward until he was floating in the sea of emotion, rather than drowned in it. _Is it possible we're involved with each other in the future?_

He was certain of the possibility from his end; he'd fall in love with her in any time. He felt connected to her, part of her, challenged and intrigued by her. She was the only woman he'd ever met who unequivocally made him want to whisk her away to his ship and establish her as his new first mate. And it wasn't just because he wanted female companionship. He wanted Emma Swan, was in love with Emma Swan.

Beginning to feel chilled through, he unrolled his bedding next to hers, hoping to generate a bit of warmth between them to ward off the freezing night. He removed his jacket and slipped under the double layer of blankets, placing the leather coat over the top. She had turned back toward the fire, so he curled himself around her back, and ever the gentleman, carefully left a tiny bit of space between them.

She was breathing deeply and restfully, and she scooted backward, settling her bottom firmly against his thighs, her back against his chest. He stilled, swallowing thickly as he was overcome by the wave of fire that deluged his entire body.

Gods, she was soft. His right arm was trapped underneath him, but his left was free, and he wrapped it around her, lightly resting his hand on her stomach. His nose was a couple of inches from her hair and he inhaled deeply, her clean scent assailing his senses with everything he'd come to associate with Emma Swan.

She'd been ecstatic at the offer for a wash of both clothes and body when the Johnson's had insisted they stay. She had borrowed one of Miriam's dresses while she waited for her own clothing to dry—Miriam offered to mend Emma's torn shirt—walking around the farm barefooted and smiling as she followed the farmer's wife around the garden, picking vegetables and pulling weeds.

Her hair had been tossed into a messy knot at the nape of her long neck, her cheeks flushed and fresh, a bright smile on her lips as she helped around the farm, living "a day in the life" as she'd called it. He had kept Errol company and entertained the children, all the while imagining himself sharing that vision of domestic simplicity with her, when she had sidled up to him.

"_Is this what your farm looked like when you were young?" she asked, hopping onto the top rung of the fence he was leaning against, her skirted thigh brushing against his shoulder._

"_Very much, only smaller since it was just Mrs. Fritz and me to keep it," he answered, shading his eyes from the bright sun as he looked up into her cheerful face. He couldn't remember a time when she'd seemed more at ease, and he smiled widely in response._

"_And did you sit around and watch Mrs. Fritz do all the work?" she teased, bumping his shoulder lightly with her leg._

"_Of course not, lass. I was very helpful when I wasn't getting into trouble," he winked._

"_Yeah, I bet," she grinned, then impulsively tousled his hair before jumping down and running after John and Kenna who were chasing each other around the water trough. He kicked off his boots and ran after her, reaching Kenna first and wrapping his arm around her waist before whisking her up and twirling her around to the sound of the little girl's delighted giggles._

Emma effectively brought him out of his reverie with a gentle sigh as she placed her hand over his and tugged his arm up under her breast, drawing him more tightly around her. His chest squeezed tight; he was holding her now, and his flooded heart began to swell until he thought it might burst. He brushed his face against her neck to move her hair aside and nuzzled closely, trailing his lips along the soft skin of her collar bone, breathing her in, clutching her to his chest.

She rotated to face him and slid down until the top of her head fitted quite comfortably beneath his chin. He felt her sigh again and relax more deeply, her hands coming to rest in the open collar of his shirt, tangling briefly in his chest hair before going limp, her breathing slow and steady.

This was a small form of torture, and he wouldn't stop it for anything in the world. He could be reasonably sure she didn't know what she was doing, aptly recognizing a sleeping form from his days living in close quarters before he'd become captain of his ship. And he was also reasonably sure she was going to wake up and either regret her boldness and tell him he needed to be with Milah or pretend it had never happened.

Well sod both of those options. Never one to run away from a confrontation, he fully intended to have a conversation with Miss Swan once they were on their way.

Decision made, he just held her, watching the coals of the dying fire over her bent head. The orange and red mingled together with no beginning and no end, transmuting from one to the other until they'd formed a singular unit. Emma's body was generating a wall of solid warmth and he felt himself transmuting and relaxing into her like those coals, allowing his floating heart to ebb and flow with the swells of her breath, closing his eyes to the smell of his Swan.

====o0I0o====

She awoke slowly with a smile on her face, keeping her eyes shut tight and giving over to luxurious satisfaction. Killian was running his hand inquiringly along her side, his legs tangled in hers... mmmm… and she responded by pressing her lips to his neck. She loved how he smelled when he first woke up—just him, clean and heady, salty like the sea, and leather, always leather, even though he'd long since given up wearing it regularly, having decided that knit clothing was "quite uninhibited". She smiled and kissed along his jaw. He tugged her closer and angled his head downward, allowing her to capture his lips in hers, lazily answering his unspoken question. She pressed her body more firmly into his, a bloom of warmth spreading from her belly outward and he rolled her over to her back, positioning himself above her before claiming her lips again, hungry and insistent.

His hands were roaming up and down her body and she broke away from their kiss for a breath, reaching her hands up into his thick hair. He had great hair. _Something is different._ He kissed a trail down her neck. _No it isn't_.

"Gods, Emma." Yep, that was her man, her Killian, ready for early morning action. She couldn't think of a better way to wake up and smiled drowsily into the top of his head.

He rolled to her side, still kissing her neck. _Wait_. So good—his scruff scratching along her cheek. _Wait_. One hand slipped under her neck to cradle her head. _Wait_. The other hand fumbled with the buttons on her vest. _Wait_. _Hands_. Her eyes flew open to see Killian, who never slept in a shirt, fully clothed and making short work of her vest, his hand sliding under the hem of her shirt and rubbing across her belly, heading straight for her…

"Jones!" Emma put both hands on his chest and pushed him away, scooting herself backward as she sat upright, quickly refastening the buttons of her vest.

His eyes were hooded and hazy with lust, and he smiled at her happily. "I knew you couldn't keep your hands off me for long, Swan."

Her heart was beating fast, chest rising and falling with each breath, her body protesting the loss of his heat. "Me? What are you doing taking advantage while I was sleeping?!"

"Taking advantage? You kissed me, love," he protested, entertained as though he was watching a show and she was the main act. He sat up slowly and shrugged into his jacket, regarding her beneath his lashes with an amused smile.

"No I didn't. I…" And then she realized she _had_ kissed him first, thinking she was waking in her husband's arms. Well, technically she had wakened in her husband's arms; he just wasn't her husband yet. Damn, this was confusing.

He smirked at her, knowing he'd won this round. "So I take it our interlude is currently concluded," he said coolly. He picked up the bedding and began folding it neatly.

"What? Yes. Of course. What did you think? I'm married for heaven's sake. I thought you were my husband." She stood up, searching for something to do but finding it difficult to concentrate.

He hesitated in mid-fold, looking at her oddly and raising one brow, "Are we so similar?"

She frowned, shaking her head sharply, because how was she supposed to answer that?

She settled on picking up her bedroll and blanket and tidied up her things, thoroughly flustered. Perhaps the seer would know how to find the Dark One or at the very least have some answers on what she should do, because Emma was losing her resolve around him and knew she'd never last the rest of this journey without falling into his arms again.

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**Review?**


	14. Into the Tunnels

_All of you reading and following are just great, just great, and you warm my heart! Much loves to you all!~DD_

_Beta-read by the clever lethemorai-your sense of detail is astounding!_

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Chapter 14: Into the Tunnels

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'I need a minute', she'd said, after picking up her bedroll and folding her blanket. She had simply walked away from their campsite as his eyes followed her tense back, her shoulders stiff, her footsteps carefully even, and if he hadn't known her, he might have been worried she wouldn't return.

_Blasted woman_. She was fleeing again and needed time to formulate a story. Killian was frustrated enough to speak his thoughts directly to her face, but would restrain himself, knowing that if the confrontation became heated, which it very likely would, they'd lose too much time. Bitterness welled up within him, her words swirling like a maelstrom in his brain, and he wanted to punch something, hard.

The air was still cold, not yet having had the benefit of the warming sun, and the coldness wrapped itself around him, attempting to mollify his anger, but failing miserably. He didn't shiver, his body was still enflamed from their passionate moment, nor did he allow his mind to linger on the memory, knowing better than to torture himself with thoughts of how right she felt in his arms.

Instead, body rigid, Killian stood at the entrance of the darkened tunnel, gripping the map with both hands, and distracted himself by reading the inscription once again, just to make certain he'd memorized it.

_AT dawn undeRtake the trek._

Well, it was dawn, or just past.

_The swan, she toUches your Neck._

An engraving of a rather lifelike swan poised to take flight was etched into the apex of the tunnel face, but he didn't know what "touches your neck" meant.

_LEt the stone be your guide,_

He'd thought about that one for a good portion of the previous evening. _Is it literal?_ He glanced around the edges of the tunnel opening and found a small depression in the rock face, about the size of the opal Mother Pearl had given Emma. Perhaps it would fit into the depression.

_And swalLow yOur Pride,_

He had quite a bit of pride, and so did she for that matter, so he wasn't sure what that meant either.

_This adVenture, no more than a flEck._

No more than a fleck… in time? in difficulty? Either way, he hoped it meant the tunnel would be easy to traverse. He did have the map after all.

As he was briefly wondering what kind of light source would be available, Emma returned. She stared blankly at the tunnel entrance, at the stone inscription, at the ground, anywhere but at him, and he thought her eyes looked somewhat red-rimmed.

"Better, love?" he mocked with one brow raised, allowing her to see the full extent of his resentment at being pushed away yet again. She shrugged one shoulder and shook her head slightly, not answering him, but as though shaking his question off like an annoying fly. He sighed heavily. "Here, give me the opal."

She put her pack on the ground and took out the opal, deliberately avoiding the touch of his hand when she placed it in his palm, leaving him with the absurd notion to grab her and kiss her senseless to stop all her nonsense.

He gave a small, derisive shake of his head, the seeds of frustration sending new shoots to the surface of his brain, very nearly growing into full-fledged fury, but he swiped them aside, knowing they needed to go before it was too far past dawn to be called dawn anymore. He walked over to the tunnel entrance and pressed the opal into the small depression he'd found, rotating it until it fit. A thin click reverberated through the air, the sound concentrated at the center of the tunnel opening and then echoing beyond.

"Ready?" he asked warily, eyeing the dim tunnel.

"As I'll ever be," she responded quietly in the same tone.

They stepped forward together, eyes trained into the gloom, and he wondered yet again what kind of light would be provided, and whether or not they'd have to make their way back out to fashion some kind of torch. Just as they passed the threshold, he felt a freezing wind blow across his neck, and he jumped at the same time as Emma startled. His skin felt like it was crawling with a thousand ants, and he resisted the urge to rub his arms through his jacket. Emma must have had the same notion because she was looking around and rubbing her arms absently through the cloak Miriam Johnson had given her. She cut her eyes to him, a nervous half-smile touching her beautiful face before she continued walking, and he realized that must be what the second line meant.

The floor angled downward, the walls curved in an echo of the opening, as though a giant earthworm had carved its way through this section of rock and earth. Opals of all different sizes were intermittently embedded in the hard dirt walls, glowing like little firefly sentries. The light from the entry faded behind them the deeper they walked, but the tunnel wasn't dark by any means, and Killian suddenly understood why they needed to start at dawn and the purpose of the original opal.

Having reached the same conclusion, Emma's brows shot up and she exclaimed, "The opal reflects the light from the outside sun to the stones within the tunnel!" She was impressed and smiled, having momentarily forgotten her earlier aloofness. But then she caught his eyes and her mouth fell, wary once again.

It was true. Each opal acted like a tiny looking glass that caught the light and then passed it to its fellows in muted streaks. The air was warmer the deeper they traversed, and comforting, in contrast to that first touch of wind that breezed across his neck, and the shoots of his frustration began to wither as he beheld the unexpected scenery.

"I was just thinking that, lass." Her hair was curling over her shoulder and her moss-green eyes were begging for a reprieve, begging him to forgive her. His face softened and he smiled, gently lifting a hand to touch her cheek, because how could he stay angry when… No, he couldn't get distracted by her beauty. He dropped his hand, walking forward purposefully, remembering his intention to confront her about their affair, and he would not be dissuaded from that course.

He waited until she was by his side once again. "So, Swan, it's time you explained our attachment to each other in the future," he said piercingly, hoping to catch her off-guard. "And please don't insult my intelligence by contending we're merely friends."

He knew he had been successful when she visibly winced at his words, and he could nearly feel her perpetually accessible stone wall pulsing as she added to its girth and strength. "I can't."

"Can't or won't?" he asked dryly, trying not to notice her emotional retreat. He kept his face forward, studying her from the corner of his eye.

She frowned, slumping slightly as though the fight had gone out of her, and she spoke in a near-whisper. "I can't risk changing the timeline."

He didn't entirely understand how the timeline worked, but if she truly was from the future, and he was there too... "Don't you think you already have?"

She rounded on him, eyes wild and agitated. "Yes! Yes, damn-it. I know I have. Just _meeting_ you has changed it. And now, now…" She hesitated, struggling for words. "And now, you're not going to want to go back to Milah." She kicked her boots in the dirt while she walked, little puffs of dust swirling around her ankles in a frustrated frenzy.

He laughed out loud, a dry, rasping sound that held no humor. Milah? His attachment to Emma had grown entirely too strong for him to even consider the brunette as anything more than an acquaintance at this point. "No, I think not, love," he said quietly.

She turned to him, pleading. "But I need you to. In my time, my life is good and important and… and… happy. And if you go changing the way you acted in my past, you'll change my life and… and I don't want you to," she finished lamely.

He gaped at her, surprised. "I hate to imply such a thing, Swan, but that sounds terribly selfish."

She inhaled sharply through her nose and whipped her head around, and he was sure she would have poked him in the chest if they'd been standing instead of walking. "You have no idea what you're saying. I know you very well in my time, remember? And I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want your future to change either."

She was still by his side, but she moved away slightly, lips pressed in a stubborn line, and he watched as she continued building her wall, slamming each stone on top of its fellows as sure and fast as she could. She hadn't specifically given anything away, but hope swelled in his chest nonetheless. "Then we _are_ attached," he said, closely gauging her reaction.

"What?" She faltered, looking surprised for a moment, but hid it quickly, retreating further into her hasty construction.

"You and I," he smirked, nearly ashamed of the perverse pleasure he took in her irritation. "You said I wouldn't want my future to change. If you're present in my future, the only way I would want things to stay as they are would be if you and I are together." He cocked a brow at her, challenging her to deny it, his body beginning to hum with the barely concealed desire to continue what they'd started earlier that morning.

"What makes you say that?" she asked, pink lips slightly parted in what he thought was disbelief.

"Because I know you, and I know myself," he said seriously, glancing down at her mouth with the strong urge to taste those lips again.

She clamped her mouth shut and angrily faced forward, letting the words fall between them unanswered, her silence confirming what he had only begun to suspect.

How could he not have seen it sooner? His blood started pumping fast and hard through his body as though he had just fought a dual, and in a way he supposed he had—a dual for the truth about Emma Swan. She was his, unequivocally his, and he wanted to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder and take her back to the Jolly like precious booty, all while proclaiming his love as loud as he could through the cavernous passageway.

He didn't, carefully containing his swelling heart, his chest cavity a flimsy barrier against the torrent of sheer joy that threatened to rush out.

"What did you mean about in…surance?" he inquired, his voice catching, unable to hide the longing in his tone and not sure he wanted to, but also curious to know if she had some sort of plan to solve this convoluted dilemma. He cleared his throat, hoping she hadn't noticed.

She stiffened again, and he could tell he'd pushed far enough for now. "I can't tell you. Especially if it doesn't work out." She stopped walking and turned toward him, fists clenched and shoulders tight, her eyes pooling with tears. "Look, I'm doing the best I can with all of this. Let's just make it to the seer and maybe she can tell me how much I need to worry about changing the past, or whether or not there's a way to fix it."

It was then that Killian realized she was just as frustrated as he was with the current situation and she hadn't been merely putting him off all this time. His heart immediately softened, losing sight of its own mixed struggle, and instead focused solely on hers. He brushed a lock of hair over her shoulder and then placed his hand on her cheek. "We'll figure this out, Swan."

She leaned into his hand, closing her eyes briefly. A lone tear escaped the cohesion of its sisters and rolled uncertainly down her face as if afraid of the unknown terrain, and he brushed it away with the pad of his thumb. She nodded slowly, opening her eyes. They'd gone the color of the sea when the sky is filled with heavy clouds.

"Thanks." Her voice was filled with relief.

====o0I0o====

"_Because I know you, and I know myself_."

The words played in her mind like a song set on repeat. He knew. She shouldn't be surprised, really she shouldn't, but there wasn't an expletive strong enough for what she was currently enduring. She felt a little like Alice in Wonderland, as though she had fallen down the rabbit hole and been swallowed by some alternate universe where all the rules had changed. In some ways she wished she could throw her hands up and be done with it all, but then she'd think of something Henry had said, or her mother's optimistic smile and she knew she couldn't go through the rest of her life never seeing them again, especially since they were all so new and precious to her.

Stubbing the toe of her boot on a pebble trapped in the hard-packed dirt, Emma stumbled forward and was brought upright by Jones's hand on her arm, his left hand. She liked his left hand, had held it several times now, and decided there were definite advantages to having a hand over a hook, although she would never tell _her_ Killian that; _he_ had grown rather fond of the attachment, even after being shown the new prosthetics possible with modern technology. No, for as much as her husband was Killian Jones, there was still a bit of Hook left in him, and she couldn't find it in herself to mind overmuch, for all his hem-hawing about his past.

She was living in his past right now with no idea of how that might change her own feelings about her husband. Even knowing it was fruitless to compare the two, she also knew it was human nature and sincerely hoped she wouldn't judge Killian based on Jones. She loved her husband with her whole heart, but in being completely honest with herself, she had to admit that she liked Jones too. Maybe that was the problem; Jones was too much like _her_ Killian not to like him.

Unfortunately, she'd bungled things badly with him. Her original worry for the timeline had snowballed into a messy avalanche, leveling everything in its path. History was changed, of that she could be certain. Jones had fallen for her already, quite obviously unwilling to hide his love and growing devotion, and it was too late to persuade him to go back to Milah. So besides changing the timeline, she'd also secured a broken heart for him as soon as she left, and quite possibly her own if she returned home to a life without him. As if things couldn't get worse. Her only hope was finding the Dark One and procuring a memory potion that would make him forget her completely and set history back on track.

A part of her wanted to cry at the thought. She could just imagine herself curled up with him on the couch like they had many a night, listening to the rumble of his voice under her cheek, reliving these adventures with a glass of wine and the intimacy established by shared adversity and triumph. She hated that she'd be the only one to remember how they fell in love all over again. How many people got to do that twice? None that she knew of.

She was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of very light footsteps, and she lifted her head, holding her breath and straining her ears to detect anything other than Jones's breathing and the sound of their own boots on the path, but she heard nothing. She made a note of it though, having long since learned to trust her senses and instincts.

They rounded a corner to find an arched den-like area with several paths angling off in different directions. The light was somewhat brighter due to a small opening in the top of the earthen dome, and Jones stopped to consult the map. Emma took a swig of her canteen, the water cooling more than just her throat, and she splashed some in her hands and rubbed it over her face, flushed from exertion.

"Where are we?" She refrained from asking 'how much longer', and smiled, remembering the car trip she'd taken with Henry when he was thirteen. The closer they had come to their destination, the more often he'd asked her 'how much longer' until she'd tossed the map in his lap and said, 'You tell me.' He'd learned to properly read a map that day, and hadn't asked that annoying question since.

Jones moved close to her, his shoulder brushing hers casually, though most likely intentionally, and he showed her the map, his index finger pointing to the first of many cross-paths.

"Here, lass. It looks like we take this one, and when we get to the next divergence, we go this way." He continued tracing the twisted path with his finger until it finally emerged at the supposed location of the seer. They still had a ways to go.

He folded the map and pocketed it, but stayed close to her while he drank from his own canteen. For as much trouble as she had already caused, she still took comfort in having him near, and almost wrapped her arms around his neck to let him just hold her and promise her everything would be okay.

"So, Swan, have any good stories to pass the time?" He sounded almost cheerful, and definitely recovered from their earlier conversation, and she smiled in spite of her worry for the timeline and Jones's heart.

"Why do you always ask me that? I mean, why don't you tell me a story?" she asked curiously, relieved that he seemed back to his normal good-natured self. She replaced her canteen at the same time he replaced his and they began walking once again.

"Because I like a good story, and you never asked," he answered conversationally.

"Right," she said, chuckling as they entered the next passageway, the light dimming until it was only a hair darker than the previous tunnel.

"And I figure you've got a yarn or two stored up in that lovely head of yours." His teeth flashed white in a flirtatious grin, eyes teasing beneath his lashes.

She rolled her eyes, but felt very grateful for the distraction. "Ok, pirate. You win. Once upon a time…"

"Wait, wait. What's the story called? Every great story needs a title to remember it by," he interrupted with a wave of his hand.

"Beauty and the Beast. Satisfied?" He nodded stoically and she continued, "Once upon a time there was a young girl who loved her father very much…"

She was only partway through the beginning of the Disney version of the story, having seen that particular movie more than any of the others, when he stopped her once again.

"Why would her father lose his way if he'd been to the festival every year? Terrain doesn't change that much. Was the man addle-brained? And if he was, then why didn't Belle go with him?" He regarded her with a confused but interested eye.

"Are you going to listen to this story or not?" she asked, although she had wondered the same thing herself on more than one occasion.

"Swan, I need to secure the details. How else am I to answer the inevitable questions when I go to relay the story to my crew?" he submitted.

She laughed. Threw her head back and laughed a deep belly laugh that brought tears to her eyes. The thought of Jones sitting around a table in the cozy galley of the Jolly Roger, mug in hand, a bunch of pirates eagerly leaning forward, hanging on every one of his syllables as he retold the story of Belle and her beast. Good grief.

"What's so amusing?" he asked, staring at her in mock annoyance, yet obviously enjoying her laughter.

"Nothing. Nothing. Let's just get on with it." She shook her head, willfully suppressing the mirth that threatened to erupt again.

She continued the story, unable to hide her smiles when he asked questions for greater clarity, and was about halfway through when he interrupted her again, this time with impressions.

"That Gaston fellow has potential. Sounds like he'd make an excellent pirate." He rubbed the hair on his chin, his beard rasping mutedly through the corridor as he considered the fictional character.

"Yes, maybe, but he's vain and obnoxious and Belle wants someone sensitive and smart," she said as if he were dense.

"Bloody hell, Swan, the heroine wants a lass for her paramour, not a man. That Gaston fellow is a _proper_ man," he said with emphasis.

"I can't believe you're defending him! He's awful and brutish." What she really couldn't believe was that they were having this argument, but at least it took her mind off how much she was enjoying herself with him, and the occasional bombshell thought of whether or not she was cheating on _her_ Killian by falling for a younger version of him.

"A pirate!" he shouted in affirmation.

"But just look at you! You're a pirate and you're nothing like Gaston. If anything, you're more like the Beast, thoughtful and considerate, protective and…" She was counting his attributes on her fingers one by one, and it was only when she saw his amused expression that she realized she'd fallen right into his trap.

"Why, Swan, I had no idea you were so fond of me," he teased.

Caught, she blushed, her body responding to his look with its own sudden increase in temperature. His mouth fell, turning serious, and she was reminded of the feeling of being in his arms only a few hours before, and knew he was thinking the same thing.

Slightly breathless, she nudged his arm. "Let's just finish the story."

He swallowed visibly and nodded, only occasionally interrupting her after that to consult the map and choose another path.

"And they lived happily ever after." She sighed in relief, glad to be done.

He rubbed the hair at the nape of his neck with a doubtful expression on his face. "Well, Swan, that is just about the most ridiculous tale I've ever heard."

"What do you mean? It's sweet."

"Sweet? What lass in her right mind is going to fall in love with some colossal grizzly fiend with poor table manners and a frightful temper?" he asked incredulously.

"But Belle could see past all that. Remember, he was a prince who'd been cursed, so his true self was somewhere in there," she maintained.

He shook his head. "Just not terribly realistic."

"Well, beggars can't be choosers," she muttered.

He chuckled, walking ahead a little ways, and she turned in mid-step, thinking she heard that odd footfall again. It was light, but somewhat uneven, like more than one person was following stealthily behind. Wondering what it could be, or why someone would be following them, she didn't see that Jones had stopped, and ran flat into his back, her nose smacking hard against his shoulder.

"Ow!" she yelled, her nose throbbing with pain. He stumbled forward a bit, looking nearly put out by her clumsiness as he glanced over his shoulder, and she rubbed the offended part with the heel of her hand.

"Sorry," she apologized. She didn't have his attention; he was gazing straight up at the ceiling. She followed his line of sight and gasped, surprised she hadn't noticed the change in the air or the light sooner.

The tunnel had opened up above their heads in a giant dome displaying a very large hole in its center, leaving a stretch of blue sky peeking through. The bright sun streamed in a wide shaft of light, reenergizing the opals so that the dull brown of the entire area transformed into a colorful gauzy glow.

"It's beautiful," she said unnecessarily, dropping her hand from her face as she forgot about the pain in her nose.

Jones took her hand, and they stood in awe, faces turned up to the light like flowers seeking the sun, admiring the brightened corridor, the tiny opals winking and blinking in all different colors: some cerulean and amber like the stone given her by Mother Pearl, some with lines of emerald and ruby, sapphire and moonstone. It was as though the opals had swallowed all the gemstones ever created and displayed their colors in patterns as they saw fit.

A waft of air drifted down the shaft and swept her hair away from her face. She closed her eyes and tilted her head into the breeze, enjoying its fresh play across her warm face. She felt Jones turn toward her and opened her eyes, smiling at his easy smile, catching the spirit of camaraderie amidst the magnificent setting. The wind continued to flutter around them, effectively tousling Jones's hair, as effectively as her own fingers would have, and she flushed with desire and abandon.

He must have known what she was thinking because he reached across for her other hand and pulled her into him, his eyes the color of the streak of azure in the stone just beyond his head, and she wanted him to kiss her again, to make her feel loved and cherished and filled… He bent down and rested his forehead on hers.

"Swan." He said her name like a prayer of petition, holding her hands tightly between them as though she might disappear, and she inhaled his breath on her lips.

"Killian, I… I want to, but…" _this ends in a broken heart for you_.

His eyes softened at the sound of his name and he stopped her by pressing a finger to her lips. "Don't say it." And he brushed his mouth against hers.

It was like a thousand alarms going off all at once, blaring, screaming, disorienting her, and she couldn't be sure, but she thought she might have fallen. She could hear her name being called as though from very far away, and then she was traveling away from the tunnels, away from Jones, away from the seer. "No!" she screamed into the freezing black cosmos, but it swallowed the sound of her voice so completely that her mouth felt stuffed with cotton.

She had no idea how long she flew, gasping for breath that wasn't there, tumbling and spinning in chaos. And as often happens when the brain tries to make sense of something it doesn't understand, she was reminded of her earlier thought of the avalanche, and imagined that what she was experiencing must be very similar, only the snow and ice would be black as night.

It was then she heard a vaguely familiar voice sawing through the blackness like a serrated knife.

"Welcome, Miss Swan."

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**Can you guess who has abducted our Swan? Review?**


	15. Who Decides What We See: Part One

_Beta-read by my very detailed friend, lethemorai._

_It's Thursday, everyone, so here's your weekly update. (I'm seriously trying to adhere to a weekly schedule... but we'll see as the summer wears on). Hope this finds you all happy and well and experiencing Killian Jones kind of days! ~DD_

_Here we find out who abducted Emma and why... so without further ado..._

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Chapter 15: Who Decides What We See: Part One

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The funny thing about spinning is that it's hard to tell when it actually stops. Emma found herself half-bent over with her hands crossed over her belly, her position reminiscent of the last time she had food poisoning, and although there was no actual nausea now, the dizzy spell was enough to make her want to collapse to the ground and curl up like a closed roly-poly. The light brightened suddenly, piercing through the darkness like the painful prick of a needle, and she stood up slowly, shading her eyes and blinking furiously until they adjusted. When she finally opened them, she saw that she was standing in a cloud, or on a cloud whichever the case may be, and Gavin, her sparring partner from the Jolly Roger, was standing next to her.

"Gavin?" she asked open-mouthed and still somewhat reeling, "What is this?" and then it dawned on her that the more appropriate question was, "Who are you?"

"Nice to see you again, milady," he said with an easy smile, "Allow me to properly introduce myself." The young pirate suddenly disappeared, stunning her with the quickness of it, and before she had time to recover, there was another quick flash and an old man with lined skin and white hair stood in his place. He was dressed entirely in black, pants and shirt matching a long cloak with wide sleeves.

"I am Zoso, also known as the Dark One, and word has it you desire an audience." He gallantly offered her a leg with one arm bent across his middle and the other held out.

She gaped at him, just gaped, unable to believe her luck, if she could call it that, since she was obviously the one at the disadvantage and her dealings with Rumple had taught her that the Dark One couldn't be trusted. How was she supposed to begin processing this?

"H… How did you know? How did you even find me? Wait. How long were you on Killian's ship?" The questions tumbled out of her mouth one on top of the other like several crazed acrobats.

"Oh, so it's Killian now?" He raised one thick, white brow and smiled like his weather-beaten face might crack. "I've been watching you, Miss Swan, and when you came aboard the good captain's ship, it was no trouble to switch places with the boy." At her appalled expression, he continued, "Don't worry. The lad is fine, completely unharmed and with no memory of his temporary captivity."

"And that makes it right?" She truly hoped that Gavin was ok, having liked the boy. _Wait. I've never actually talked to him._ The thought was somewhat disconcerting, especially since so much of her time over the past couple of weeks had been dealing with people who weren't what they seemed, including Jones—from _her_ Killian's insinuations, she had expected the past version of him to be a much shadier kind of guy.

"I find that in these situations, the ends justify the means," he said shrewdly, peering closely at her with his mouth half-turned up in an almost grin.

"What do you mean you were watching for me?" she asked, dread settling heavily in her feet, threatening to drag her down through the amorphous cloud.

"Let's just say there are ripples when time is disturbed, magical ripples that can be detected by anyone who has a cursory knowledge of alchemy, which I happen to have of course." He bowed slightly in recognition of his skill.

"What do you want?" she asked, more than a little concerned. He had been looking for her? Why? She shifted her feet, somewhat uncomfortable under his keen gaze, but didn't back down from it.

He placed his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth a bit. "I think the appropriate question here is: what do you want from me, Miss Swan?"

Rumple had always seemed to know things before anyone else did too, so she might as well get right to it. "I… Well, I… need a memory loss potion," she finished quickly.

He pulled his hands forward, rubbing them together like a mad scientist who has just successfully completed his latest project. "Ohh, I thought so! I thought so! Well, as luck would have it, milady, I have just what you need right here." He pulled out a small dark flask, placing it in both palms before presenting it to her. She went to take it, but he pulled it back, pocketing it once more. "Not so fast, my dear. You know how this works, this not being your first time in the Enchanted Forest, or your first time dealing with magic I daresay." He looked insufferably pleased with himself, and she found she was quite annoyed with his presumption, even if he was right.

"I'm not sure what you might want from me. I can owe you a favor," she suggested, hoping that whatever he asked would be reasonable.

His eyes widened slightly, surprised. The motion wrinkled his forehead like a pug and she nearly laughed at his resemblance to the small dog, the funny image doing much to assuage some of her anxiety.

"A favor? Oh no, I don't deal in favors. I prefer direct transactions. I believe you have found your true love, correct?" She nodded, keeping a close watch on the wizened old man. "And it just so happens that I have one of his hairs in this tiny bottle. So, give me one of yours and I can finalize the potion."

"How did you know?" she asked quietly, sure she had been careful in how she had behaved around Jones.

"So naïve, you are. True love is the most powerful magic there is. You and he are practically aglow with it to anyone who has eyes to see. Now your hair, Miss Swan, and the memory potion is yours." He smiled the same face-cracking smile again, but she was breathing easier now that she knew his price was well-worth what she would receive in return.

Emma reached up and plucked one of her long blonde hairs from her head, carefully handing it to him so it wouldn't be caught in the wind. He took it and placed it in the bottle, where it shortened and twined with another hair she could only assume was Killian's, until the two hairs resembled the double helix of a DNA strand, the resulting glow around them a bright pink. He corked the bottle and placed it in his breast pocket beneath his cloak.

"A deal is a deal, Miss Swan." He handed her the dark flask with a gentlemanly flourish.

"And this will make him forget he ever met me?" she asked, almost frightened by the power she held in her hand.

He tilted his head at a crazy angle. "Are you sure that's your desire? Because you might find you want it for yourself, in case you perhaps… decide to stay?" He ended the statement as a question, and she startled, the prospect never having occurred to her and making her feel like she was standing on the edge of an abyss with one foot already dangling.

"Why would I decide to stay?" she asked dubiously, stomping down the nervous jitters bumping into the sides of her stomach in random jolts at the thought of remaining with Jones. She could only pray that would not be her only option.

"Perhaps 'decide to stay' is a poor choice of words. How about: in case you fail, you may wish to forget what you've left behind, or forward as the case may be," he said pleasantly, as though he wasn't suggesting the complete dissolution of everything she'd come to love about her life.

"I'm sure it won't come to that," she said coldly, fearfully, recognizing the element of truth and shying away from it.

"Perhaps you're right, my dear." He shook his hand as though shooing a fly and continued, "_Whoever_ drinks this," his eyes bore into hers, "Need only hold in his mind what it is he desires to forget and then swallow. The potion will do the rest, and the effects are permanent," he added with a small nod.

"Thank you," she said, looking down at the dark flask, the viscous liquid slowly moving back and forth as she tilted it.

"Don't thank me. You'll most likely find yourself with more than you bargained for before too long." He raised a brow and smirked knowingly, and she shuddered, trusting he was probably right, making her dread what the immediate future held.

"Now I will offer you another boon—a gift so to speak for taking pity on a lonely old man stuck aboard a pirate ship scrubbing for hours on end… I'll show you a shortcut through the tunnels," he said charitably with a grin to match.

He gestured to his feet and the cloud opened up into a filmy-edged hole between them. And as if this adventure couldn't get any weirder, she was staring down at a cutaway version of the tunnels she and Jones had been traversing, like one of those ant farms stuck between two pieces of framed glass. She could see a tiny Jones shaking her prostrate form, their abandoned campsite near the boulder and the entrance, miles of tunnels turning this way and that like knotted rope, and the seer's home—a brown roof peeking from a forest of lush trees and verdant bushes. She studied the tunnels more closely and could see that if they always chose the right hand path each time they came to a fork, or the middle path every time there was more than two choices, they would exit more quickly by bypassing the maze-like route.

"Uh, thanks," she said, losing some of her former annoyance and tucking the potion into the pocket of her leather pants.

"No. Thank you, Miss Swan. I look forward to seeing you again," he said courteously. His eyes turned regretful and his smile was almost sad as he lifted one hand and flicked it carelessly in front of her.

She didn't have time to decipher his words and expression because she was tipped over the edge of the cloud as though someone had simply tossed her overboard, and she found herself falling end over end at a dizzying speed. The blackness abruptly enveloped her and the screaming became louder and louder until she was pressing her hands to her ears in an effort to block it out, but that didn't work because the sound was inside her head, and then she realized it was coming out of her own mouth.

And once again the screaming and the delirium stopped as suddenly as they had started. She opened her eyes slowly, and watched as Jones rotated around her head a few times before the world righted itself and her mind came to rest in her body once more. She was lying on the ground, her pack beside his, in the large domed room with all the opals. The dizzy spell passed, and she held onto Jones's blue eyes—swimming with concern and relief—the way she would grip a float tossed out to her at sea.

"Are you alright, love?" he questioned gruffly, hastily brushing away tears as his eyes passed over her face in a quick study to assure himself of her health.

She nodded and sat up slowly, taking Jones's hand as he pulled her up, and walked over to the nearest wall, not saying anything yet. She placed her hand on one of the brilliant stones. It was cold to the touch, but she'd bet money it had been hot, burning hot only moments before when he had touched his lips to hers. She pressed her forehead to the cool stone and caught her breath.

Jones came up behind her, snaking trembling arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. He tightened his hold on her and his arms stilled. "What happened?" he asked in a near whisper.

"I'm not sure, but I don't think the opals like us kissing." She turned in his arms, resting her hands against the collar of his shirt, looking up at him and smiling broadly, the reassuring weight of the potion pressing into her thigh. Her heartbeat quickened in acknowledgment; she could have this moment with him without worry now.

"So we have gemstones for chaperones? I guess that gives a whole new meaning to the inscription, 'Let the stone be your guide'," he said with a smirk.

She chuckled happily and let him take her hand, ready to meet the seer, and trying not to think about how she was going to break it to him that he needed to drink the memory potion and forget all about her.

====o0I0o====

The tunnel opened out onto the side of a mountain, the land dipping away from them into a gorge covered with a tight canopy of dense hardwoods. Several other mountains stood in the distance, their sides lining the gorge until the entire area looked like a giant green funnel, although there was no way to tell how deep it went. A magnificent waterfall tucked into the foliage tumbled down a smattering of boulders before spilling into a large lagoon, its surface hissing with the force of the spray. Water lilies in full blossom and marsh grasses lined the edge of the dark pond, the colors and clarity mesmerizing even from their distance. Bird song filled the entire valley, happily paying tribute to their sublime home.

Killian and Emma stood in awe, still holding hands—he was happy to note—gazing at the striking landscape before them. He wrapped his arm above her pack and around her shoulder, pulling her against his side, and she leaned her head on his shoulder as they rested for a moment, enjoying the view and each other.

"Mmm…" she hummed, "I could get used to this." There was a smile in her voice, and his chest tightened, wondering if she meant the view or being in his arms. He hoped it was the latter.

"I know what you mean, lass." He squeezed her gently. "We should probably get on," he said reluctantly.

"I know," she sighed, and pulled away.

As soon as he had stepped out of the shadow of the tunnel opening, Killian felt a cool breeze brush the back of his neck. He stopped, enjoying the play of the air lifting the sweaty hair off his nape. His pleasure lasted only a moment though, and then something hit him in the back of the head, hard.

He grunted, his head falling forward from the impact. "Bloody hell!" He lifted a hand and began rubbing the spot that was sure to form a lump.

"What is it?" Emma asked, looking over her shoulder with a concerned gaze.

"Something just slammed into the back of my head." He searched the ground to see if he could find the object, shaking his head when he saw an opal lying on the ground blinking innocently up at him. It held the colors of moss green and aquamarine, a beautiful stone of the sea, and he picked it up, handing it to Emma.

"I think this belongs to you, lass," he said with an amused smile, the irony of not quite being rid of the meddling stones not lost on him.

She took it with a chuckle and pocketed it. "I guess we can still give it to the seer then. I wondered how that was going to work out when you put the original stone in the rock face."

"Aye. I did too."

A dirt path led off to the right with thick palms and downy ferns surrounding the edges, threatening to enclose it, reminding Killian of the forests of Neverland. Thankfully, the path was clear and visible, obviously maintained by someone, whereas the paths in Neverland had to be forged—exhausting work that. He took her hand again and led her forward; she didn't protest, only entwined her fingers with his like she'd been doing it forever. Her hand was smaller than his, but her grip was strong and sure, and he tightened his hold on her, afraid to trust that she wouldn't find a way to push him away again, and at the same time savoring every second of her touch.

It wasn't long before they came to a large house peeking out of the trees, surrounded by a cultivated garden with several types of plants and flowers that Killian had never seen before. It was a riot of color, following no pattern or symmetry like a courtly garden would, but breath-taking nonetheless. Flowers and shrubs, waving grasses and tiny trees all pushed into each other, boldly claiming their own space, but with an eye for their neighbors so that every plant could be appreciated. Emma squeezed his hand.

The house was a two-story stone structure shaped much like the manse of a nobleman. There were windows on both floors, wide open to the clean fresh air with thin drapes pushed aside and billowing in the breeze.

They stepped up to the large wooden door and Killian knocked loudly. The door opened quickly as if their host had been waiting just inside, and a middle-height portly man stood at the entrance, face wide with delight. He was wearing round spectacles on a clean-shaven face, brown breeches and blue vest, complete with a watch chain dangling from a pin to his pocket. His hair was thick and dark, although he must have been at least twenty years older than Killian.

"Welcome Miss Swan and Mr. Jones!" he said in a booming and cheerful voice, "I've been expecting you."

Emma caught her breath at the man, looking somewhat startled and yet pleased at the same time. Did she recognize him? Killian turned back to the man and was surprised to see him wink at her, earning him a rosy glow that bloomed on her cheeks in response. Killian narrowed his eyes slightly, looking at her oddly, and decided to keep an eye on the gentleman in case he had any ideas about his Swan.

"Come in, please do," the man said, opening the door wider and ushering them into a large but elegant parlor. An intricately patterned rug sat on the floor, a fireplace with no fire going at the moment graced the center back of the room, and several pieces of stuffed furniture as inviting as anything he would have expected in a nobleman's home were clustered into a comfortable seating area. The walls were covered partly in a small-patterned silver fabric and a rich mahogany wainscoting. He vaguely wondered how much it had cost to build and decorate the place, especially considering the remote location, but this gentleman could obviously afford it.

Killian removed his pack to the floor, stretching his shoulders upward and around. "I can understand how it is you know us, sir, but would you be so kind…"

"Oh, dear, where are my manners? Of course! My name is Ian MacRannoch, but you can call me Mac." He extended his hand to Killian and shook it warmly. Then he turned to Emma, winking at her once again as he took her hand and bowed low over it. "This is my humble home and you are most welcome here." He held her eyes and her lips parted slightly. She raised her other hand to her mouth and began absently stroking her bottom lip, her breathing quick and a little shallow. Perplexed, Killian watched the exchange and wondered why she was acting so strangely, almost coy if he didn't know any better.

Shaking her head as though coming out of a daze, she pulled her hand out of their host's. "Please, Mr. MacRannoch." Her voice came out in a nearly pleading tone, and Killian searched the two of them again for any signs that would explain her reaction to the elderly gentleman's flirting, but could detect nothing.

"Mac," he corrected, standing up straight and continuing to watch Emma, his mouth twitching like a rat about to steal a piece of cheese.

Emma closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, then reopened them and pulled the opal out of her pocket. "Mac. I… I believe we are to give this to you." He grazed the inside of her wrist as he took it and she jumped, startled by the contact. He rotated the stone in his hand, holding it up to the light, smiling widely in admiration.

"It's lovely, isn't it? Always was my favorite gemstone. Reminds me of my mother's eyes," he said fondly. He shook off the memory and his good-humor returned, and he gave the stone back to Emma.

"I knew you had Mother Pearl's blessing as soon as she gave it. She was always rather particular for my taste, but then that's why she was chosen as one of the guardians." He placed his hands in his pockets and tapped his foot a couple of times.

"Then this isn't payment? She said I was to give it to you." Emma shook her head again, squinting her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose as though she had a headache.

"Heavens no! It's more like extra insurance that you are who you say you are. I would be difficult to deceive of course, although it can be done," he admitted honestly. "But still, my manners once again—it's been so long since I've had guests—you'll want to refresh yourselves from your long journey before supper. Let me show you to your rooms."

They picked up their packs and followed him through a doorway at the back of the room into a wide hallway with a staircase off to the side. "Please, make yourselves at home." He gestured upstairs. "The room closest to the stairs on the right is yours, Miss Swan. Mr. Jones you are just across the hall." He smiled encouragingly at them. "Dinner will be served when the last rays of the sun touch the tops of the trees over the gorge."

"Thank you, Mac. You are most kind," Killian said graciously.

"Your servant, sir, milady." Mac bowed in response and then made his way down the hall toward the back of the house.

"What do you make of him?" she asked in a whisper with a small frown, her eyes following Mac's retreating back.

"He seems well enough, a little odd, but that's perhaps a product of loneliness. Come on, Swan, you aren't having second thoughts, are you?" he teased, bumping her shoulder with his own. Mac's home was a welcome respite from the rough camping they'd been doing for the past couple of weeks, and even though Killian had several questions, he was looking forward to a proper meal and bed.

"No, not exactly, but… I thought for sure you'd have an opinion of him." She looked down at the strap of her pack in her hands, fingering it before tossing it up to her shoulder and slowly walking up the stairs.

"He's a gentleman. And he seems to be genuinely pleased with our arrival."

"But that's just it, isn't it? I mean, he's a seer. The seers I've heard about were creepy old women with strange eyes. But he's, he's almost normal, well, aside from the fact that he's part animal." She looked confused but tired, as if she didn't really want to think about anything just then, even though she had brought it up.

Killian couldn't imagine what she meant by that, but didn't press her, thinking he could ask her later after she'd had a rest. Besides, they had arrived at their rooms. "So I'll see you at supper, lass?" he asked, reluctant to leave her side, and yet ready to rest his weary feet and possibly catch a few winks before their evening meal.

"Yes," she said quietly, and turned away from him without another glance.

* * *

**I know this has ended in a weird spot, but the next scene is LONG and I couldn't break it up and it still make sense.**

**Please let me know what you think in the review box. Some of you have made some good guesses about where this fic might be headed-and sometimes I get ideas... So thanks bunches in advance. Have a great week!**


	16. Who Decides What We See: Part Two

Chapter 16: Who Decides What We See Part 2

Emma turned from Jones and entered her room, bending as she dropped her pack on the floor with a quiet groan, her back muscles protesting the movement. She heard the door to Jones's room quietly close and lifted her head, one hand on her lower back to support herself as she stood. The sight that greeted her was so unexpected she opened and closed her eyes more than once to be sure she wasn't dreaming, checking the hallway behind her to see if everything was as expected in a circa 18th century home like the rest of the house. It was.

Turning back around and staring in absolute shock, she leaned against the post of the huge canopy bed to her left and let her eyes travel around the room. Whereas the rest of the house's dark corners were lit with candles set upon silver sticks or in wall sconces, her room was awash with a rosy glow coming from a couple of floor lamps placed in the two far corners. The walls were painted in a creamy off-white unlike the fabric-covered walls and wainscoting everywhere else. The room held what she assumed was a closet door on the other side of the bed, a plush arm chair in the corner, polyester drapes that stretched back from the open window, and best of all, a thick fluffy tan-colored carpet covered the entire floor. She immediately shucked her boots and socks and squished her toes in it, relishing the soft fibers under her tired feet.

All in all, it was as wonderful as any room that might be found in a bed and breakfast from the future, complete with all the modern touches, and she felt a sudden longing for her own time, including its conveniences, and her family. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she was suddenly accosted with a memory of her first nights in Storybrooke at Granny's. She blinked them back, knowing it was fruitless to cry; all the more reason to get the information she needed from the seer and be on her way.

Padding over to the window, she could see miles of green trees turned golden by the rays of afternoon sunlight touching their tops. The bird song was even more intense than it had been earlier, perhaps because of the waning afternoon, and she thought she could have stayed there for an hour, sitting and resting and allowing the cheerful creatures to help her forget her grief.

Turning from the window, she ambled curiously over to another door on the other side of the closet, and was stunned to see a bathroom, complete with toilet, shower, and sink, with a toothbrush holder, a new toothbrush and toothpaste, and goodness, was that lotion? She nearly choked up again, this time in gratitude, and she twisted the faucet handle to see if it worked. Cool water cascaded over her hand along with a surge of excitement at the thought of a shower, a real shower. She promptly stripped out of her sweat-stained clothes and opened the curtain, finding a washcloth, shower gel and shampoo. She had died and gone to heaven.

After having spent nearly an hour languishing in the warm spray with foamy bubbles of body wash effectively rinsing away days of grime, and having brushed her teeth in minty bliss, Emma donned a fuzzy white bathrobe she found hanging on the inside of the door. She wanted to rush across the hall and see if Jones had a shower too, and to show him how to use it if he did, but the bed was beckoning, so she plopped herself across the pillows, sinking tiredly into softness that enveloped her as securely as Killian's arms.

Running her hands back and forth over the printed cotton coverlet, she wondered how Mac had managed her modern suite in the middle of the Enchanted Forest. There must be some advantages to being a keeper of time, to say the least.

Mac was the last thing she could have expected when told she needed to find the seer. Ian MacRannoch was a satyr, the bottom half of his body that of a shaggy, brown-haired goat and the top half that of a man—a very handsome, very muscular man with thick brown hair that curled over his forehead, a pleasant, wide-lipped mouth, a long, straight nose, and the most striking and mischievous gray eyes she'd ever seen.

The second thing she had noticed was his intoxicating scent, strong, clean male with a hint of musk, and as her mind tried to sort out exactly what was so wonderful about the way he smelled, she would have to go back for another sniff as soon as she'd exhaled. His scent brought to mind one night stands, wild lovers from her past, and passionate nights with Killian; and Mac knew it, damn him, she'd seen it in his smirk. She hoped all she'd done was blush, having felt the heat in her cheeks first, promptly followed by heat everywhere else, but she couldn't be sure as she wasn't exactly thinking about how ridiculous she must have looked, instead losing herself to all-encompassing sensation.

Thankfully Jones hadn't noticed her strong reactions to Mac, or at least she didn't think he had, so that was a good sign that maybe Mac was just a harmless old goat—pun intended. She couldn't find anything remotely threatening about him, his manner genuine if peculiar, and for all he was a flirt, Jones was likely right, Mac did seem to be a gentleman.

Yawning widely, Emma pulled back the duvet and burrowed down into the cool starched sheets, not even realizing she'd fallen asleep until she awoke to the sound of her door closing. A thin shaft of light sprinkled through the room and a quick glance out the window told her that she only had a few minutes to dress and get to dinner.

Walking back toward the bathroom to retrieve her clothing (although she was loathe to put the dirty leather back on), she saw that it was gone, and sitting on the sink was a small basket of cosmetics and a curling iron with a note to check the closet. Obviously someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make her feel welcome, and she smiled, enjoying the brief sojourn into her own time.

Inside the closet was an elegant emerald-colored gown, floor-length and fitted with an overskirt in the same color that wrapped partway around the waist, leaving the center open. She ran her hand over the creamy silk, imagining herself as the princess her parents insisted she was, but that she could never quite embrace. Hanging the dress back in the closet, she hastened to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup, brushing aside the faint feeling of guilt that polluted her flurry of anticipation. She could forget for one evening where she'd come from and who she was missing, and just enjoy being in Jones's presence, knowing she had the memory potion as back-up, _couldn't she?_

The dress slid over her freshly moisturized skin, a perfect fit, cut low in the front with a tiny half-sleeve covering her upper arms. She took the dark green ribbon from the basket and used it to tie back the front half of her hair, allowing the rest to fall in gentle waves down her back. The final touch was a pair of emerald green slippers in her exact size.

Her stomach felt like a thousand bees were buzzing in it—she'd never think of butterflies the same way after running through the razor-winged ones—and she opened the door slowly, stepping into the hallway just as the last rays of the sun filtered through her window. She turned toward the stairway, pausing when she heard Jones's door open.

If she hadn't known better, she might have thought she'd been hit over the head with a hammer. Quite suddenly confronted with a picture of her husband dressed in formal attire was enough to make her forget who she was actually gazing upon. There weren't many opportunities for black tie affairs in Storybrooke, and it had been awhile since she'd seen him looking so dashing—in fact, not since their wedding day. She careened as the emotions of that day besieged her with their intensity, overwhelming love, joy, relief, disbelief, all fighting for control of her heart, and she leaned back, her hand seeking the sturdy door frame behind her. When she found it, she squeezed the wood in a death grip, focusing her attention on the tense muscles in her wrist and forearm until the wave passed.

Continuing to stare, like an idiot she supposed, she let her eyes travel the length of his body. He was dressed in a pair of black slacks with a white shirt and black vest, high collar open of course, and a long emerald green suit coat sweeping the back of his legs, complete with unhooked brocaded enclosures. His blue eyes widened as he took her in, his smile sincere and filled with honest affection.

He made a sweeping bow. "Mi… ahem… Milady." His gallant gesture was not quite ruined by the catch in his throat, and she stifled the nervous laugh that came to her mouth, not wanting to discourage him; he was obviously as nervous as she was.

She removed her hand from the door frame and curtsied in return. "Jones." Two could play at this game, and she found herself more than willing to deal her hand in.

He recovered his composure quickly, walked over to her and took her hand, leaning in close, his breath hot on her ear. "You know, Swan, when you walked out on the Jolly all decked out in leather, I thought I'd never seen anyone more pleasing to the eye. But I must say, tonight your elegance astounds this simple sailor." Bright blue eyes traveled from her face to her feet and back again in a slow perusal that displayed his appreciation, leaving her feeling like a lovely piece of expensive artwork or one of his precious treasures.

"May I?" He turned to the side and extended his arm to her.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, the touch chaste and yet provocative too, and she couldn't shake the feeling of being a nervous teenager on her first date.

One of several rooms off the large hallway, the dining room was lit with two candelabras casting shadows on the paneled walls, lending the room a dreamy glow. Mac had been sitting at the head of a large, ornately carved table enjoying a glass of wine, but as soon as his guests entered, he made his way over to them, hooves clicking across the stone floor.

"Ahh, milady," he said approvingly, "You look simply delightful." His gray eyes had plum colored flecks in them that she was sure had been absent earlier—she would have noticed—twinkling as they appraised her. A wave of desire moved through her body in time with his gaze, and she found her thoughts centered this time on her last encounter with Jones, when she'd woken in his arms and very nearly given herself over to him completely.

Jones did not relinquish Emma's arm, if anything, he tucked her elbow even more firmly into his side, so she held out her free hand to Mac, who bent low over it, turning it and delicately kissing her palm. His lips were warm and sensual and thick as pillows and… if this didn't stop she was going to need to excuse herself for fresh air.

"Ah, Mac. So kind of you to offer us proper supper attire. I'm sure I can speak for Miss Swan in expressing our appreciation." Jones interrupted Emma and Mac's silent exchange in pleasant tones that belied the undercurrent of jealousy she detected.

"Not at all, Mr. Jones, not at all. It is my pleasure to see you comfortable." Mac stepped aside, and Jones saw Emma seated next to Mac's chair before going over to his place opposite her.

Mac rang a small bell. While he filled their wineglasses, a tiny woman floated in, carrying a tray almost as large as she was filled with roasted birds surrounded by root vegetables. She had extremely long black hair that flowed to her waist, thick enough to cocoon her entire body, and pale delicate features. Placing the tray on the table, she brushed Mac's arm in the process, and Emma caught sight of the most brilliant violet eyes suffused with playfulness. Mac's hand disappeared under the table and one of the woman's brows arched gracefully while her lips settled into a comfortable pucker of mild amusement, Emma guessing that she must smile frequently.

"Thank you, _mo shearc_," Mac said fondly.

Jones tilted his head, having caught the words she could only assume were some kind of relation to Gaelic. Mac turned back toward the table, but his hand remained where it was, and the woman didn't move.

"Miss Swan, Mr. Jones, allow me to present my…" he hesitated, his eyes softening as he turned his gaze back to the woman with a tenderness that made Emma feel like an intruder, "my Isobel," he announced gently.

Her violet eyes lowered and she smiled enticingly at Mac before addressing Emma and Jones. "Verra pleased to meet ye both," she said in a strong somewhat Irish sounding accent that seemed incongruous with her petite frame. Emma had visions of Viking-like women speaking in such tones, and Isobel was anything but.

Isobel nodded her head politely and excused herself while Emma took her first bites, slowly at first, but then with more appetite as she tasted the spiciness of the simple meal that matched the warmth already cascading through her at intervals, even though she hadn't touched her wine.

"How do you come to be here, Mr. Mac?" she asked between bites.

"Mac, please. I come from the islands very far north of here. My mother was a seer before me, and her mother before her. You see," he laughed at his quip, "the women were the seers among my people. When it was discovered that I had the gift, I was shunned for being… different. My mother and grandmother were very protective, saying that my gift had been given to me by the great creator and that I should be revered as the women seers were. The men of the village didn't agree, and I was called an abomination. My tribe was one tribe of many, and so when I reached the age of manhood, I was taken to the council and made to stand before the elders where they had me demonstrate my gift." He smiled humorlessly and paused in mid-bite, "I thought of lying, but the other seers would have known, so that wasn't an option."

"What did they ask you to do?" Emma asked, more than curious. Jones was too, judging by the way he leaned forward while Mac spoke.

"First I was asked small things, like the name of a child I'd never met or the ingredients of a brew that I couldn't possibly have known. Those were easy and I answered quickly, without having to go into the customary trance that most seers use. That astonished the council in and of itself. They murmured among themselves and then asked me the fate of the tribes.

"I struggled with that one. I did go into the seer's trance, not for the answer since I already knew, but to know how much detail to share. Most seers only see in pieces, like looking through the windows of events as they happen, whisked away with no notice. But I can control it. I can peer through the window and stay awhile. I could give details no one else could.

"My fate was already decided, and I realized I needed to tell everything I knew, regardless of the outcome or the reactions of the people hearing it. The women seers of the council would know I was hiding something if I didn't completely reveal what I had learned, and so I told them. I told them that the tribes would be scattered by a violent race of people who wouldn't understand our ways, and provided names and dates, details that silenced the assembly as they all listened in horror.

"When I was finished, the council dispersed for deliberation, and the next day met again to reveal my fate. I knew I would be banished from the tribes, alone, but not yet lost, for I had seen Isobel. She was a member of another tribe, but had been present at the council meetings. She is a few years older," he smiled again at their astonished expressions, "although she is aging very well." He pushed his plate away from the edge of the table and leaned back in his chair, lifting his wine to his lips for a sip and then swirling the ruby colored liquid around and around.

"As I began my long journey south, she simply followed me without a word. I tried many times to draw her into conversation, but she remained mute, her remarkable violet eyes—I'm sure you noticed—twinkling with amusement. I couldn't imagine what she found so funny, especially after forsaking her entire life for someone she didn't know, but I later discovered she was also a seer, had seen her future with me, and had learned early in life not to fight her visions, or risk consequences not worth the trouble, since the future would always find a way to be fulfilled. It wasn't until we'd arrived here that she finally spoke her first words to me."

"What did she say?" Emma asked curiously as she sipped her wine.

"That I would be forever hers, and I best not forget it." He chuckled lightly, cheeks flushed with wine and remembrance. "My Isobel is quite possessive, and a woman of very few words, but when she speaks, I listen."

Emma smiled, imagining strong-willed women, and happened to glance at Jones, whose blue eyes met hers with a directness that seemed to penetrate through her. He spoke volumes without a sound, of his belonging to her and his pledge to follow her to the ends of the earth and beyond if that's what it took to be by her side.

She broke the eye contact, unable to bear his soul when she was so close to losing her own to him, all the while thinking of her husband and what he would say about all of this, especially when he knew she had been within his reach and was forced to drink a potion to forget it all.

"That's quite a tale, Mac." she heard Jones say roughly.

"Aye, it is. And though we've been alone for a good portion of our time here, we've never been lonely." Isobel entered with a fresh bottle of wine and refilled their glasses, her eyes darting to Mac's beneath her lashes, an unspoken current of conversation dancing between them.

Emma's blood began to pool in different areas of her body, boiling and swelling from the thickly charged air. The feeling was similar to the tingling of magic, and she was besought by thoughts of Killian's smell, his warmth… his muscled thighs… his hard chest… strong arms crushing her against him. The images flooded her brain and she tried to shake off her arousal, but happened to catch Jones regarding her with a similar expression, his blue eyes darkened and dilated. Her lips parted of their own accord, and she bit her lower lip, tasting him, wishing this supper would come to an end, and quickly.

Jones pulled his eyes from Emma's and turned back toward Mac as Isobel took her leave once more. "How long have you been here, Mac?" Killian asked.

"How do you measure time, Mr. Jones, when you are outside of it?" he inquired cryptically. "I have no idea how to answer that, but suffice it to say that it's been a long while."

Mac put his glass to his lips and drained the remaining wine, then looked over at Emma with a pointed gaze. Jones's face tightened perceptibly, but he covered it with a handsome smirk and upraised brow. The two men were regarding her with very different expressions, both clearly stating what they wanted. Mac wanted an audience. Jones wanted… more.

Standing up, Mac pushed his chair back, walked over to Emma and pulled hers out for her. He took her hand and gathered it into his elbow.

"Now, Mr. Jones, there is a lovely lake behind the house tucked into the surrounding gardens. The moonlight should be enough for you to enjoy the view. If you will excuse Miss Swan and me, I believe we need to have a conversation," he said without flinching.

Jones was standing tensely, a forced expression of politeness on his face, but she could see he took the slight personally. She removed her hand from Mac's arm and went over to him, whispering into his ear.

"It's ok, I need to speak with him about the timeline remember?" She brushed her lips over his ear in a near-kiss; his whole body stilled, but the shoulder beneath her hand quivered slightly, reminding her of a live wire set to explode. His eyes followed his hand as it traced her other arm from elbow to palm, sending a shiver throughout her limb, until he was holding her fingers gently, this time causing Mac to wait for him.

"Find me when your conversation is finished, love." He kissed her hand, allowing his full lips to linger on her skin, filling her with an anticipation she shouldn't be feeling.

She took Mac's arm once again as he led her toward the parlor, the clip-clapping of his hoofs punctuating his booming laugh. Then he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, let's discuss how we're going to return you to your true love!"

Emma didn't see the astonished look on Killian's face before he left the room.

====o0I0o====

Seated comfortably on the couch with a fresh glass of white wine in her hands, Emma took a sip, enjoying the light fruity notes that softened the edges of her vision and made her feel like she was floating about two inches above the seat cushions. Mac took the wingback chair next to her and lit a carved ivory pipe. The smoke curled around his head and he sat back, sighing in contented bliss.

"Go ahead and ask, lass," he said, blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling.

"How is it possible that I have electricity and plumbing in my room? I took a shower! A shower!" She took another sip of her wine, vaguely recognizing that it was stronger than the one served with dinner, and she'd do well to pace herself.

"And did you enjoy it?" he asked, pulling over a small stool and propping his hoofs on it.

She laughed. "What do you think?"

The corners of his wide mouth twitched and he waggled his brows. "I live outside of time, so I know about many of the modern conveniences of your world. And I am a seer who can let you see whatever it is I want you to see." He smiled devilishly, and then put the pipe to his lips, drawing the smoke in a long inhalation. Emma was more than grateful that the pipe smoke somewhat masked his own alluring scent.

"What do you mean?" she asked, perplexed.

"Well, Isobel and I are different to say the least, but, here I'll show you." With that he seemed to grow wider in the middle and shrink down, his handsome face metamorphosing into an older version of himself. He looked essentially the same, but he'd lost the goat legs for human ones and gained a pair of breeches and buckled shoes in their place.

"This is what Mr. Jones sees when he looks at me." His smile was so enchanting that she couldn't even begin to be freaked out. As soon as he had transformed, he lost all traces of seductiveness and her floating body landed squarely on the cushions of the soft couch, sinking in gratification. She hadn't realized how much the sexual tension was just that, another form of tension.

She sighed happily. "I like it. You remind me of a clean-shaven jolly ol' St. Nick, er, an older gentleman that gives toys out to children once a year at Christmas."

"Ah yes, Santa Claus. I'm familiar with him. And did you like Santa Claus and Christmas?" he inquired with a look that said he already suspected the answer.

"I liked the idea of him. As for the actual holiday, no, not so much. It was too much of a fairy tale. I'm much more comfortable with practicality." She shrugged her shoulders, feeling slightly light-headed with the movement, and took another sip of the delicious wine.

He laughed again, pulling his pipe away from his mouth. "Funny how you ended up living in a fairy tale, isn't it? How about that for practicality."

She grinned. "Yeah, right. It took a long time for me to accept it."

"And love? It took you a long time to accept love?" he asked, and she had the faint feeling that he was somehow leading this conversation in a particular direction, although she didn't mind.

"I had never been loved before, I mean really loved. And meeting Henry and my parents and then Killian changed all that, changed me," she answered honestly, leaning her head back and staring at the intricately carved panels on the ceiling. Taking the weight of her head off her neck was such a relief that she sighed in pleasure.

He stilled, pipe poised near his mouth, and spoke quietly. "He loves you," he said simply. He blew another wave of smoke rings above his head, the gentle puffs the only sound in the cozy room.

Her heartbeat slogged through her body, slowing down to a snail's pace, and she thought again of Alice and Wonderland, only this time she would be Alice sitting with the smoking caterpillar, contemplating the mysteries of life. "I know," she finally answered.

"And you love him too." He was staring at her, his soft eyes serious but kind.

"Of course I do, I married him." She smiled, thinking of Killian.

"No you didn't. You married the future version of him. This Killian Jones," and he pointed his finger in the direction of the gardens, "is different, and you love him in his own right."

The words began circling in her mind, slowly at first, like a very heavy freight train that takes a mile or two before it reaches its top momentum, rolling over and over the track in a repetitive mantra. _You love him in his own right, you love him in his own right_. She could just hear the chugging going round and round, faster and faster.

Startled, she lifted her head off the back of the couch and stared at Mac, the truth of it slapping her in the face. It's not like the thought hadn't already crossed her mind, maybe, just maybe more than once. And then she imagined _her_ Killian, and how he might feel to know that she couldn't stop thinking about a younger version of him. The one who hadn't had his heart broken by lost love and betrayal, who still had both hands, who could give himself to her wholly and completely, she being his first love, precious and unspoiled. Who wouldn't fall in love with that man?

She hadn't realized she was crying until she felt the cold wetness of a tear when it dropped to her naked shoulder. Killian, her love, was sitting at home, missing her and loving her, grieving her the longer she was gone, asking the gods what he had done to be so unlucky as to lose two of his loves.

Setting his pipe on a nearby plate, Mac moved over to the couch and gathered her in his arms. "I wasn't trying to upset you, lass."

She cried harder, her small frame shaking in his larger one under the strain of her sorrow, finally able to release all the frustration and confusion that had plagued her since she'd first met Jones.

When her tears were spent, she pulled back from him a little and he offered her a handkerchief. "Do you think I'm being unfaithful?" she asked quietly, blotting her eyes and then lowering the cloth to look up at him.

She must have missed a tear, because he brushed one away from her face, the pad of his thumb soft and fleshy against her cheek. "I can't answer that, lass." He squeezed her hand sympathetically. "But tell me, what do you propose to do about the timeline?"

"You mean you don't know?" She made an attempt at a teasing smile, but failed, her lips moving upward and then falling back into a frown.

"Touché, Miss Swan," he said, although not unkindly. "Truthfully, I've checked in on you occasionally to gauge your progress, but I felt it would be a gross intrusion of privacy to do much more than that," he said with a respectful nod. Seeing that she was no longer in need of his comfort, he moved back to his chair and picked up his pipe.

She shuddered, realizing the Dark One didn't seem to have any scruples about doing just that.

She sat up straighter, grateful for Mac's honesty. "I was hoping to get him to drink a memory potion and forget everything we've been through."

"Ah. Clever." He was quiet a moment, puffing on his pipe to draw more smoke from it. "Do you think it will be that easy?"

"Is it ever?" she asked dryly, then continued, "But I have to try. I can't risk not going home to him."

"I understand. Then perhaps it's best if he doesn't know he's your true love. Let him think what he will, but try not to involve yourself any further. And yes, I understand what I'm asking. But I see a forked path before you and both of you will have to make a choice. And there will be no guarantees for the preservation of the timeline unless he drinks the potion _after_ you leave."

The frankness of his comment got her full attention. "What do you mean about a choice?"

"You'll know when you get to it. And much will depend on the success of your journey. You still have several tests left, and I can't see the outcome because it will depend on the choice."

Her brow furrowed as she thought about what he said. "So the future is not determined until the choices are made."

"Precisely. I was able to see the fate of my people because all the choices leading them toward that fate had already been put into motion. Yours and Mr. Jones's fate is, as of yet, undecided."

"Now you're starting to sound like the cryptic seer I expected," she teased beneath her lashes.

He chuckled. "Not really. It will all come down to what you want, and even the best seers can't tell a person that." He smiled warmly and then stood up, offering his hand.

"Now, I do believe I've kept you long enough, and Mr. Jones will desire your company. I will see you for breakfast and explain then what will be expected of you if you are to unlock the door of time." He took her to the door leading into the hallway.

"Goodnight, lass," he said, and took his leave.

====o0I0o====

_True love? _

Killian walked stiffly out of the dining room, mulling over those two simple words that held so much meaning, his feet leading him to the gardens of their own accord. One thing Killian had come to learn in his years of being a sailor turned pirate was that true love was real, rare and precious. Sailors were a romantic bunch, including him, telling and retelling stories of love lost and gained, the tales intertwining with the love of ship and sea in a tangle of sentimentality.

But there was something about those two words swirling around his mind like an eddy current in a river_. True love… what was it about true love…_

And then it hit him as hard as the opal had hit him in the head earlier that afternoon—the inscription. The etched stone flashed before his eyes as though he were staring at it, and he stopped for a moment in his outdoor wanderings, closing his eyes and paying close attention to the prominent letters.

_AT dawn undeRtake the trek._

_The swan, she toUches your neck._

_LEt the stone be your guide,_

_And swalLow yOur pride,_

_This adVenture, no more than a flEck._

Disregarding the first letter of each line, the remaining letters… sure enough spelled: T-R-U-E-L-O-V-E. _Bloody hell!_ _What does that mean?_ And was it coincidence that Emma's name was used in the engraving? Did the inscription somehow foreshadow that Emma Swan would be returning to her true love? The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that there was more to this journey than simply following a path until they came to the door of time. Perhaps Emma was right to be cautious.

And Emma. She was married to her true love? Was he not only her husband, but her true love as well?

The path snaked around the garden in a whimsical pattern that could have been designed by children, and Killian nearly lost his footing with the astounding realization. Finding a stone fountain nearby, he sat on the edge of it, rocking back and forth, staggered by the overwhelming truth of the revelation. It would certainly explain their powerful connection, her reactions to him, her ability to use him to initiate her magic. _Hmmm_.

He wondered what Jamison would say if he found out Killian and Emma were true loves. Actually, Jamison would probably say, 'I told you so'. He chuckled lightly at the thought of his oldest friend and relaxed his back and shoulders. He had to find his Swan. He wanted to hold her, needing to assure himself she was real, that this was real. Passing the parlor on his way to the back door, he glanced in the window, his full heart suddenly freezing at what he saw.

There was his Swan, pressed against Mac, leaning her hands into his chest, looking up at him with such trust that hot jealousy stabbed Killian right in the gut. He finally understood what had made her behave so peculiarly when she'd first met the seer; she was infatuated with the elder gentleman. Which begged the question: where did that leave him?


	17. Bad Idea

_Hi All! A big giant thank you to everyone for your awesome response to this fic! Beta-read by lethemorai, who probably thinks too much, but whose inspired thoughts help me clarify mine. _

_Here's a nice, long chapter for all you dearies, as I don't know when I'll be able to get the next one up, but probably not by next Thurs. :(_

_Much loves to you all! Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 17: Bad Idea

* * *

Reeling once again for entirely different reasons, Killian abruptly turned around and made his way back down the paths around the gardens, the fragrant flowers and charming landscape barely registering in his embittered brain. Insecurity wrestled its way into his fingertips, traveling up his hands, wrists and arms until they were stiff with it. Emma was able to provoke an emotion he hadn't known since Liam had died, and he didn't like it; his skin was crawling with questions, the main ones being: was he wrong about her? Was it possible she was capable of playing him false?

Visions of comforting her in front of the fairy conclave came back—her soft body curled against his, his hand stroking her hair, rubbing her back, her head comfortably tucked under his chin—it was the first time he realized he might be falling for her, when she'd clutched him like he was her lifeline and he resolutely understood he wanted her to always need him in such a way. But she had looked the same in Mac's arms, hadn't she? How dare she let a man she barely knew hold her like… like he would?!

He was walking very quickly, pulling at his collar even though it wasn't anywhere near his neck, and suddenly feeling overly warm, he discarded his coat and tossed it on top of a nearby rose bush, uncaring of how the thorns might destroy the fabric. At the moment, all he wanted to do was find Mac and pummel his face in for daring to touch his Swan.

He pulled open the back door and darted forward, jumping back before colliding with Isobel on her way out. Her long black hair practically wrapped around her arms like a protective cloak and her downcast eyes looked slightly more slanted than they had earlier. He straightened his posture and feigned a polite smile. "Mil—"

She lifted her head, the clarity of her violet eyes unsettling him with their startling magnitude, reminding him of the sea when a blood moon reflects across the water. "Walk wit' me," she interrupted in a brusque tone and with a look he wouldn't dare contradict even though her head came to just beneath his shoulder.

"Aye, milady." He offered her his arm as a gentleman and turned back toward the path, frustrated at being thwarted from his goal, but unable to deny his hostess.

She said nothing and led him to the pond Mac had described after supper. They walked right up to the water's edge, the pebbled path extending a few feet beyond until it disappeared completely beneath the darkened surface. The water was smooth as glass, and the shadows of the tall trees reflected in the pool so distinctly that it was hard to tell from where they originated. Winking fireflies danced in erratic display and Killian began to lose some of his earlier annoyance when an unexpected breeze gently ruffled the water, blurring the reflections of the trees, and combed through his hair as sure as Mrs. Fritz did when he was a boy and couldn't sleep.

"Ye must follow her to the verra end," Isobel said quietly, hand still on his arm. He startled at the sound of her voice, having nearly forgotten she was there.

"Of course."

She must not have been convinced with his quick answer. "No, ye must understand. She'll be stuck in between if ye don' finish the journey with her. She'll try to convince ye otherwise, but _in between_ is… dangerous." The tiny hand shuddered on his arm as a tremor passed through her.

He had no idea what she was talking about, but he had no intention of leaving Swan either, so it shouldn't be an issue.

"Ye canna know the gravity of the journey ye're aboot to undertake," she asserted, still gazing out over the lake.

Several minutes passed in complete silence, and Killian thought of Mac's statement that she was a woman of few words, noting that he'd likely just heard the extent of her conversation.

He turned his head toward her, waiting until her violet eyes met his. "No, I don't know what we'll face, but I swear on all that's holy I will not leave her side."

Isobel nodded curtly, satisfied, and then turned around and floated like a wraith back to the house, her leather slippers not making a single sound on the path of loose stones.

He gazed back out over the water, watching tiny flies alight on the surface of the lake, some of them occasionally disappearing with a quiet _plup_ as a fish or other creature took their evening meal. Isobel's words made him feel a little like those unsuspecting flies, taking a moment of rest just before the jaws of hell snapped open to claim his life once and for all.

Several more minutes passed before Killian followed the tiny woman's trail back to the house. Suddenly Emma's attraction to Mac didn't seem nearly as important as her safety.

====o0I0o====

Still somewhat heady from the wine, Emma left the parlor just as Jones was entering the house. Glinting blue eyes filled with concern met hers from the other end of the long hallway. Jones walked briskly toward her, and her feet—needing no direction from her brain—carried her toward him, each drawn to the other by shared intentions like two magnets finally coming in close enough proximity to jump across the remaining expanse and join as quickly as possible. He was standing directly in front of her, his hands reaching out to take hers hesitantly, as if afraid she might pull away. But she didn't pull away, even with all the questions about her husband swirling in her brain like brandy swirling in a glass, trying to keep herself detached, to keep herself from feeling the depth of her grief, her guilt, her love.

She noticed his bright green coat was missing, leaving him dressed mostly in black with only his white shirt peeking from the collar, his sleeves unbuttoned, his hair messy. He was upset about something.

"Swan, might I interest you in a night cap? There is… ah… something I'd like to discuss with you privately." His manner was perfectly noble, like a devoted suitor, but his words were grave as he tugged the back of his ear.

"Uh, sure." As soon as the words left her mouth, she couldn't help but wonder, _Am I sure?_

"Meet me in my chamber? I'll follow shortly."

She nodded, her stomach suddenly feeling much heavier than it had a moment ago, sinking arduously into her gut in nervous anticipation. She turned away from him, but he kept hold of one of her hands until she faced him again. He was smiling, a broad happy grin that lit his entire face, so joyful and infectious that her own lips grinned in response. It helped lessen her nervousness and yet increase it at the same time.

He let her go and walked back the way he came as she turned to head up the stairs. She couldn't believe she was doing this. Was she doing this? _This is a bad idea_, everything in her shouted. What had Mac said? Don't get involved anymore than you have to. Don't let him know you're true loves. And here she was, walking up the stairs, heading to his room, where they would be alone with a comfortable bed staring at her, tempting her. Yes, this was a very bad idea.

Killian. Killian. Killian. She held a picture of her pirate husband in her mind, his lips smirking as he held up his hook, the man who had altered his entire life to be a part of hers. He had settled into the typical boring, middle class life to satisfy her need to be near family, and had never complained, never resented her for his decision, having just accepted it and moved on. He said he was done with adventure, having spent a good portion of his life chasing it, and was happy to just work and come home to cook a meal and watch a little television before curling up next to her every night. _He is a wonderful husband, everything I could ever want…_ The thought steadied her a bit, and she hoped it would be enough.

Opening the door to Jones's room, she casually leaned in but kept her feet firmly planted in the hallway, figuring it was safer. She was more than a little curious to see if his room resembled hers, but it didn't, fitting in with the style of the rest of the house. The room was lit with two candles, one by the side of a four-poster bed and one on the table next to a settee in the corner and a small desk sat next to one wall with a stool under it. A large metal tub with a towel draped over the side sat in the middle of the floor space, where he'd obviously had a bath before supper.

She was interrupted from images of him naked in a bathtub when Jones nudged her elbow.

He leaned into her, keeping his eyes on the room. "Nervous, love?" He was holding two wineglasses by the stems and a bottle of red wine.

"N… No, not exactly." Tempted was more like it, tempted and determined to say no to it.

"But you're coming in?" His brow furrowed in concern, but it was the disappointment that dragged at her heart, its beat quickening a little and sickening a little as she tried to decide how she would refuse him yet again.

"I… don't know if this is such a good idea." Who was she kidding? She should have said: _I know this is a bad idea_.

"I don't bite, Swan. Well, not without permission anyway." He flashed white teeth in a cheerful grin and winked, and then brushed past her to set the tray next to the settee. He seemed perfectly at ease, having lost whatever gravity had taken hold of him downstairs.

She stood in the doorway another moment, but with curiosity about what he wanted to discuss getting the best of her—at least that's what she told herself—she made her way into the room, leaving the door open and crossing over to the window. The thick trees had melded into one dark, rolling mass, and a foggy haze blanketed the entire area, as though the spirits of the trees were trying to escape their static roots. She wished she could escape with them.

The night was beautiful, but the kind that comes with a sense of foreboding, as though this were her last opportunity to enjoy tranquility and peace. Mac's words weighed on her and she thought perhaps it would be best if she put the thoughts of tomorrow out of her head and remained focused on the present.

Jones walked up behind her and offered her a glass of wine. "Here, love."

She took it with a tentative smile and sipped the liquid courage, her eyes focused on the opaque haze, and for the first time since she'd known him, almost uncomfortable. The silence was charged with expectation, but it was hard to tell whose it was. He stood next to her, very nearly touching, but not quite, the heat of his body warming her arms as the air cooled around them.

"Well, what did you want to discuss?" She needed to get right to the point and then get out of there if she stood a chance of overcoming her rather active imagination teasing her with visions of her and Killian in several compromising positions. She took another sip of wine and then a deep breath, trying to calm her thoughts and her nerves. _Just focus on the moment, Swan. _

He gestured with his hand toward the settee and she sat down slowly, like a convicted felon about to face the executioner. He pulled the small stool from the desk and sat across from her, his knees a couple of inches from hers.

"Mac. I want to know what it is between you and Mac. You've been odd around him since we arrived, and at first glance I'd say you were attracted to him. Do you know him?" He studied her without judgment, as though he suspected the worst and had already braced himself for her answer.

"Er, not exactly." She shook her head and pulled her lips to the side, trying to figure out how to tell him what Mac was. "He's a shape-shifter, and he has been appearing as a satyr to me."

He tilted his head in question and placed one hand on his knee, leaning toward her. "A satyr? You mean a half-goat? But aren't they…" he trailed off and both his brows shot up in surprise. "Then your attraction to him is… contrived?"

"Yeah, something like that. He said he could make us see whatever it was he wanted us to see." She sipped her wine and shifted a little in her seat, trying to get comfortable under his scrutiny.

"Then, all of this," he waved his hand around, "is a figment of Mac's imagination?" He looked around the room with interest, as though he might find some hole in the fabric of the vision before him.

"Or Isobel's," she said. He turned to her and raised a brow as if to say, _point taken_.

They were quiet for a few minutes, sipping wine. Emma stared at the elaborate rug on the floor, letting her eyes follow the patterns of several stems to see how far each one went. It was mindless and distracting, but not enough, because as the silence grew, so did her awareness of Jones.

Before she could think of something to break the tension, he touched her hand. "You've somehow managed to acquire the 'insurance' you were seeking." It was not a question.

She was startled he had figured it out, but she wouldn't lie to him. "Yes. How did you know?"

"Ever since you revived after fainting in the tunnel, you've been… easier with me." His tone was matter of fact and reassuring, and she felt her shoulders relax a little. "What is it?"

_So much for relaxation_, she thought as her shoulders tensed again. "I'm not sure how to tell you this... without your getting…" She took another sip of wine, wondering why it was called liquid courage when she felt anything but.

"What is it, Emma?" he asked gently and took her chin in his hand to lift her face up to his.

He very rarely used her name, generally reserving it for serious occasions, so it had just the effect he desired. It got her attention and told her that whatever she said, he would listen and consider it rationally. Some of the weight of what she needed to say lifted.

"I've got a memory loss potion for you to drink. Then you can forget all about this and continue your life as you normally would if you hadn't met me." He dropped her hand abruptly, regarding her with a bemused expression.

"You're jesting. Why would I want to forget you, to forget us?" he asked incredulously.

"I'm not _jesting,_" she said in the same tone as he had, "And because we have to preserve the timeline. It's the only way." What could she say to make him see how important this was?

"The only way for what exactly?" He spoke quietly, but his eyes suddenly turned a darker shade of blue, the tiny flame of the nearby candle flickering in his irises.

"For…" Her heartbeat picked up speed again, and she felt as though she were a fish trapped in a net and that he was the one wielding it. He already knew, so what was the big deal in speaking it out loud?

"Say it, Swan, I want to hear you say it." He was lifting the net from the water, checking his catch with the confidence that comes with being a master fisherman.

_Yeah, Swan, say it_, she told herself. She took a deep breath and looked at him square in the face, letting him feel the force of her words. "For us to be together in the future." She spoke without shying away from it this time, and it felt good to get it off her chest once and for all.

"So you admit unequivocally that you are married to the future version of me," he said smugly, leaning back a little on the stool and taking another sip of wine.

She held his eyes. "Yes, I am. And it's great." This time she wasn't backing down. She had jumped out of the net and was swimming freely once more.

He smiled widely, eyes glinting over the top of his raised glass. "And let me guess, you and I are true loves."

She gasped, her short-lived freedom coming to an end as she was caught once more and flailing around, desperately searching for an escape. "How the hell did you figure that out?" So much for Mac's advice on not telling him about the true love.

He didn't answer her question. He set his wine down and placed both hands on his knees, leaning into her with a penetrating stare.

"So you expect me to drink this potion of yours and just forget. Forget you, what we've been through together… let me see, maybe go back to Milah. Is that correct?" His head bobbed almost imperceptibly and he lifted one brow in protest.

"Yes. You have to. It's the only way I can see to guarantee the timeline." She leaned away from him a little, trying to put some space between her and his frustration that was currently growing and completely directed at her. And there wasn't anything between them to distract her from him this time.

"You do understand what you're asking." His voice was hard, unyielding.

"Y… yes, I do. And I know it's not easy, but you just have to trust me." She pulled back even further, his intensity reminding her of Hook, like a firecracker about to go off.

He abruptly sat straight up, chuckling acerbically. "Trust you? Because you've been nothing but open and honest since we've met." He grabbed his glass and drained it, then refilled it and drank half of that one too. "Why are you pushing me away again? Haven't I endured enough?" He pushed his fingers through his hair, face distraught, eyes dark and pained.

It was enough. For the sake of all that was important to her, she'd had enough. She stood up abruptly, forcing him backward, and he stumbled as he rose from his stool, but met her head on.

"You? What about what I've had to endure? Hiking next to you for weeks on end, watching you flirt with other women, being so close and yet unable to touch you, all because I want to be able to go home to you! It's been excruciating!" She clenched her fists and pressed them into her side.

He stepped closer to her. "I'm right here, Swan. I've always been right here. And it's no secret how I feel about you." He put his hands out to take her arms, but let them fall at the last second, obviously regretting the turn in the conversation.

"And what about him? Killian in the future?" she clarified, "He's sitting at home, waiting for me to return, probably sick with worry and grief! How would he feel about my messing around with you when he's in such a state?"

"Are you asking me how _I_ would feel about that?" He rubbed the back of his neck and narrowed his eyes.

"Yes! No! I don't know!" She twisted her head away from him, her eyes stinging with tears of frustration.

"Emma. Look at me, love."

The burden of everything she felt was crushing her, and she found it difficult to take a breath. How could she love a man so much? How could she live her life without him?

"Stay with me. We don't have to do this. I'll whisk you away to any life you want. I'll make my home with you." He took her hands in his, rubbing circles over the backs of them, gentling her, persuading her.

"How can I leave him like that? Leave… you?" Between the wine and the onslaught of emotions, her head was fit to burst with the clamor of conflicting thoughts.

"But you don't have to leave me. You can stay with me." He stepped a little closer, his face soft and kind and she wanted to melt into him and forget there was a difference between Jones and Killian.

"But my family. What about Henry? And my parents? I have a life to get back to. I can't just give all that up for…"

"For what? For me?" He raised one brow and his anger instantly returned, strong and piercing.

"That's not what I meant." Her sigh was shaky, unsure. What did she mean? What she really wanted was to have _her_ Killian without Milah, without the scars on his heart, without the pain of regrets and memories and nightmares. To have Jones in her own time, loving her and holding her as securely as he always had.

"Isn't it?" he challenged.

She shook her head in confusion, remembering Killian, how they met, how it took so long for her to accept his love, and how he was forever patient with her, the wisdom of three hundred years tempering him with understanding and an almost masochistic ability for delaying gratification. She shouldn't do this to him, couldn't do this to him.

And yet, he was standing right in front of her, asking her for no more than he always had—just recognition of how she felt about him.

"Just what am I to you, Swan?" he asked coolly, holding his emotions in check.

She had always been amazed at his self-control, but his words broke something within her. Confusion, frustration, anxiety and abject fear broke the surface of her mind the way a volcano suddenly erupts without warning. "Everything, ok?! You're everything! You have been since the day you asked me to marry you. I was happy. _We_ were happy, a family. And we were trying for a baby because you wanted to be a father, but I haven't gotten pregnant yet. And then I was here, chasing around the Enchanted Forest, and I've been trying to find a way back home to him, but I met you and you're just like him, but without all the pain and regrets and I can't… I can't understand what I'm supposed to feel about this."

She placed her hands over her mouth as her tears broke for the second time that evening. But then she dropped them to her side, fortifying herself with the truth. Let him see exactly how he made her feel.

"But I haven't lived that life with you yet." He was looking at her quizzically, as if willing her to understand this from his perspective. "I'm not him."

"What? Yes you are." She tried to sound convincing, but when her words came out the second time, they were quieter, and even she didn't believe herself. "You are." Wasn't it a few minutes ago that she'd been arguing they were different?

"No, I'm not. He's a possibility or a probability, but either way, he doesn't exist yet, Emma. I do. Right now. So I'll ask you again, what am _I_ to you?" He took her hand and placed it over his heart, searching her eyes for an answer.

The thumping was familiar, quickened, but heavy and certain. How many times had she allowed that rhythm to lull her to sleep as it echoed against her back or to comfort her with its surety? She couldn't look at him, but couldn't look away.

"You're breaking my heart, Jones," she choked, closing her eyes to better concentrate on the solidity of his hands, his chest, his breath.

"Am I? Then that's no different than what you've done to mine. At least we have that." His smile was sad, but compassionate.

She chuckled sarcastically, and a tear rolled down her face, but she willed herself to speak with a conviction she wished she felt. "I can't stay. My family means too much to me to give them up, and if you drink that potion, then I'll be going home to you anyway and none of this will matter."

He hesitated, still holding her hands between them, and she became aware of how warm his chest felt and the softness of his hair underneath her fingers.

"Won't it? What about you? Won't you remember?" He was leaning into her and his breath was hot against her face.

Leave it to him to ask the question that had been bothering her for awhile now. "Yes, I suppose I will," she resigned.

"And you're content with that end?" he asked, face serious.

"If it means getting to wake up next to you for the rest of my life, then yes, absolutely." She raised her eyes to his, letting him see that everything she was and always would be belonged to him.

"Ah. Well then. Do you have the opal with you?" His lips twitched in a half-smile and he leaned his forehead against hers.

The edges of consciousness blurred with anticipation, or perhaps the expectation that had been hovering in the air since she'd made her way up to his room. "No, why?"

"Good." And with that, he kissed her, capturing her lips knowingly, succinctly, holding her securely against his chest as if afraid she might bolt. He was so much like Killian, her Killian, he was Killian, and he smelled the same and tasted the same and felt the same, strong and secure and really there. She let her body melt into his, her head and her limbs feeling light, but her core feeling as though all the gravity of her body were weighted there, drawing him into her. Her wine-fuzzed brain tried to remind her that she was kissing Jones, but her body ignored it, as he was able to elicit the same strong response he always had.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and cradled the back of his head in her hands, pressing herself into his muscular body. She could taste the wine on his lips, and she felt like she was inside a crystal ball looking out through the opaque mist that shrouded the interior, waiting to be seen, at the complete mercy of the gazer who had the power to clarify her surroundings, or not. Her mind was a muddle of emotions and passion, confusion and response, and she didn't want to see clearly. This felt too damned good.

He broke away from her mouth only long enough to shut the door, his return stride purposeful as he began unbuttoning the buttons of his vest, blue eyes never leaving her face, his mouth seizing hers once more in a promise of fulfillment. She found herself incapable of telling him no.

Hands. He had always been good with his one hand, able to stroke and coax new sensations from her body with a determination that bordered on obsession. But Killian Jones with two hands was indescribable. She entangled her fingers in his hair and ceased thinking, letting weeks of frustration, and the remnants of Mac's delicious scent take over every part of her that would have run away.

He kissed down the side of her neck and she tilted her head back to give him better access.

"You're not going to tell me this is a 'one time thing' again, are you?" he teased into her skin, the smirk in his voice as sure as if she were looking at his face. He sounded cocky and happy at the same time.

But something in the stilling of her over-stimulated body must have alerted him because he lifted half-hooded eyes to her face, taking her chin with his hand so she couldn't pull away. "Are you?" This time the question was curious with a hint of dread.

He spoke. He shouldn't have spoken, or maybe it was good that he had because the mist cleared in her shrouded mind as soon as she heard his words, her passion cooling instantly to be replaced with crushing remorse. He was so handsome, his shirt open to the waist, the top two buttons of his slacks undone when her fingers had gone wandering only moments before, his lips swollen and his hair sticking up in every direction. But it was the expression of absolute agony that clenched her heart and made her take a step back as she realized she couldn't do this to him; she couldn't break his heart, and she couldn't betray _her_ Killian.

She pulled her face out of his hand and turned her head to the side, closing her eyes as her breathing returned to normal and her body began to settle back into itself. "I… I can't do this, Jones. God," her voice cracked, and it was a prayer, a prayer for strength and the ability to endure, "I can't do this. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I know him; he'll be devastated and I can't do this to him."

She had every intention of stepping around him, walking past him without looking at his too blue eyes filled with anguish, but he had no intention of letting her go. He grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward him. "Swan, don't go. We belong together. True loves, remember?" He smiled sadly, his last ditch effort to get her to stay without putting too much pressure on her.

Her throat constricted and her dress suddenly felt too tight as she struggled to take a breath that didn't want to skirt the flood of tears threatening behind her lids, but she forced herself to choke out the words he needed to hear.

"I fell in love with the you that's had an extra three hundred years of life experience. The you that's been through love and loss, the you that's lived more lifetimes than should be possible. You're respectful, and you're patient and you would never ask me to choose between you and my family. It's him that I return to. He's the one who has waited so long for my love, and I can't do this to him. I'm sorry."

She fled the room before the tears could start falling, guilt engulfing her, drowning her in a love that was impossible to deny and yet the biggest betrayal of all. She was positively in love with the impetuous, funny, and wonderful Jones who had two hands and a full heart and no regrets.

Emma Swan Jones was without a single doubt screwed. And she had no idea what to do about it.

* * *

**Ok, so I hope you don't hate me! This was a painful chapter to write, and things will be rough before they get better, but just hang in there! Please let me know what you're thinking in the review box. I love hearing from each and every one of you-it makes me smile like Killian smiles at Emma! Cheers!~DD**


	18. The Fight In Between

_Happy 4th everyone, I hope you're enjoying your summer! I had several guest reviews-thanks so much for all your kind words; it's lovely hearing from each of you. Cheers!~DD_

* * *

Chapter 18: The Fight In Between

* * *

Emma raced across the hall to her bathroom, her body bent almost entirely in half as she skidded to a halt and landed on her knees in front of the toilet, wrenching up the lid just in time to… stare at the crystal water of the perfectly clean bowl. She never had been the type to throw up, some part of her wondering what it would be like to be so fragile. But she might as well get it over with, so she sat back on her heels, waiting for just a second… and there they were; the sobs she'd been wrestling down broke free and racked through her frame with a ferocity she hadn't felt since she'd thought she'd lost Henry to the poisoned apple tart all those years ago.

She cried. She cried for the countless conversations she'd had with Jones that showed his true character, for how hurt he must be by her constant rejection, for how he couldn't possibly understand what was at stake if he didn't drink the potion, for the future that lay ahead of him if he did. And she cried for her broken heart that had been on the spin cycle of a washing machine since she'd arrived, whirling in confusion and now despair.

She hadn't cried so much in years, very rarely allowing anyone to get close enough to affect her emotionally; she had learned to protect her heart.

But not with him.

And therein lay the problem.

Jones was in love with her, she was in love with him, and Killian… She was in love with him too.

She covered her face with her hands, ashamed. Killian always held a steady belief in her, his constant trust that she would do what was right according to some "hero code" he insisted she instinctively followed. But at this moment, she didn't know if she'd have his approval. She hadn't married the younger Killian Jones, she had married the elder Killian Jones, and she had betrayed him, betrayed his trust and his love, unable to encapsulate herself from the emotions his younger self evoked. She knew she couldn't keep doing this; something had to give.

A fresh volley of tears cascaded down her face as she resolved to put Jones behind her and finish this quest alone.

As though in answer to her decision, thunder rumbled through the gorge, rolling like an all-consuming tsunami edging ever closer, and she had a fleeting desire to jump out her window and fly over the treetops, surrendering herself to the storm, to the sheer magnitude of nature. She wished it was that easy.

Peeling herself off the tile floor, she carefully removed her dress, hung it in the closet, and then rummaged through her bag for her linen fairy clothing since her leather hadn't been returned yet. After brushing her teeth and packing the provided toiletries, she strapped on her cutlass, shouldered her bag, and quietly made her way downstairs, a loud clap of thunder underlining her escape. _No. Not escape, self-preservation_, she told herself.

Following the sound of low voices, she arrived at the doorway of a library with dark paneled shelves of books, paintings and knick-knacks lining the walls. Mac was sitting with his arm wrapped around Isobel as they lounged on a dark leather couch, backs to the door. Emma was just about to knock when Mac's loud voice startled her.

"Leaving, are you?" His tone held curiosity, and he twisted his head over his shoulder to look at her with dancing gray eyes. She thought he must be in satyr-form, although she couldn't see his feet to be sure.

"Uh, yeah." She sighed, walking into the room to stand by the arm of the couch so he could relax his neck. She noticed then that he did in fact have legs and was wearing a pair of rather modern-looking cargo pants and button down shirt; Isobel was wearing a sundress, both looking completely alien in the antique room. Isobel's cool violet eyes held Emma firmly in place, and she fought the urge to squirm under the tiny woman's pointed inspection.

"I… I thought you might give this to Jones," Emma stuttered, turning her gaze to Mac as she handed him the potion.

He grunted as he removed his arm from around Isobel's neck and took the dark bottle from her. "And what makes you so sure he's going to drink it?" he asked with an inflection that indicated he was completely aware of the difficulty in getting Jones to do anything he didn't want to do.

"Explain it to him, Mac. He can't see anything past me, and when I tell him, he doesn't really believe," she pleaded, trying to make him understand. Knowing what she knew about Killian, the more time she spent with Jones, the harder it would be to convince him to drink the potion.

"Can you blame him?" Mac turned from the bottle to her, one bluntly arched brow asking her if she were sure about her decision. A thick lump formed in her throat as the full implication of what she was doing settled uncomfortably on her shoulders. She wouldn't see Jones again, and she was placing her fate in the hands of a stranger. But surely if anyone understood the importance of maintaining the timeline, it was Mac.

"No, I don't blame him. But I need him to forget so he can go back to the life he was meant to live, and I'm just complicating matters." She let her eyes travel around the room, noticing for the first time that she recognized several of the paintings as coming from her own world—some Renaissance, some modern. She shook her head to stay focused on the matter at hand. "You can't tell him where I've gone; he'll follow me." Her voice sounded flat to her ears, carefully devoid of the emotions that could swamp her at any second if she surrendered to them.

Mac's handsome face held disappointment, but he would honor her wishes, of that she was sure. "Of course not, lass. The timeline must be preserved at all costs." He bowed his head slightly and groaned as he stood up, smiling at Isobel and reaching down to pull her up.

Before taking her leave, Isobel smiled faintly at Emma, not as a show of support by any means, more like a look of pity that had Emma vaguely questioning if she were doing the right thing. But what choice did she have?

Mac walked over to a desk on the far side of the room. "Well, then. I can see you've made your choice, and there are some things you need to know…"

====o0I0o====

The closing of the door as Emma left his room was the punctuation mark on a sentence he wished he'd never heard out of her mouth. Killian stood staring at the carved wood, hands by his sides, shoulders slightly slumped, calmly accepting the regret that comes from recognizing he was the perpetrator of very bad form.

He _had_ been attempting to woo her from her husband, and then when he'd found out he was her husband, he thought it would be easy to persuade her to forsake her life in the future for a life with him now. But his future self had obviously endured experiences that had somewhat altered his character, for the better according to Swan, and she was devoted to him. He didn't know what he had done to earn her love and that kind of loyalty, but he knew he needed to start acting like he was worthy of that love from now on. Emma wasn't one for the taking, she was one for worshipping, and asking her to choose between him and her family was simply not acceptable. He wished he would have seen it sooner.

Running a hand over his ragged face, he stepped across the room to the small table holding their two wineglasses and the unfinished bottle of red wine. She had been sitting there only moments before, confessing her feelings for him, and he had bungled the tender moment because he couldn't hold his frustration in check, having no reference for feeling so strongly for a woman, being at the complete mercy of said woman's smile or touch.

He picked up the bottle, put it to his lips and drained what was left. It was very good wine, excellent in fact, but not quite strong enough. Fumbling through his pack for his flask of rum, he sighed in pleasure as the liquid gold slid down his throat and spread through his belly with the assurance of easing his current regret.

The stool scraped across the wooden floor as he dragged it over to the window, and sitting, he leaned back against one of the bedposts and propped his feet on the windowsill. Thick, dark clouds gathered over the gorge in a blanket of ashy gray—quite a tempest was brewing. Perhaps he and Swan would do best to delay their departure another day; it would give him a chance to make amends and apologize for his insensitivity. He wouldn't pressure her anymore, no matter how difficult it was to put his heart on hold.

A flash of lightening streaked across the pregnant sky, casting an eerie green glow over the trees. Its accompanying peal of thunder soon followed, booming across the gorge so loudly as to cause hundreds of birds to chatter in protest as they hid from the impending rain.

At the same moment, Emma Swan's door opened and closed, and Killian Jones was none the wiser as she made her way out of her room and out of his life.

====o0I0o====

One thing about traveling alone was that there was plenty of time to think. Unfortunately, Emma wasn't much in the mood for thinking, feeling quite spent after her conversation with Jones, losing her supper, and a sleepless night. The storm approached quickly as she walked, with veins of lightening visible throughout the sky at intervals, throwing the dense foliage into plain view as though someone were taking photos with a giant flash camera. Every streak and resounding boom sent a jolt through her blood, enshrouding her with nervous energy she could do without, being quite aware that once she reached the waterfall, she would need every ounce of courage she could muster.

She heard the first patter of drops before she felt them. The dense canopy of treetops provided an adequate shield from the rain, but she quickened her pace anyway, hoping to avoid traveling while soaking wet. The air thickened with the rise in humidity, and the smell of green plants navigated the air currents and mingled with the clean scent of ozone. It was a tropical smell that reminded her of Neverland.

A large gust of wind whipped through the forest, bending the trees and thrashing the smaller plants at their bases. The sudden break in the canopy sent a torrent of rain down on Emma's head, soaking her in a matter of seconds, and she almost screamed in frustration, very nearly losing the tight rein of control she had on her emotions. _Relax, Swan. You're about to enter a waterfall. Getting wet now is no big deal. _

Rounding a particularly large tree, Emma slowed her step, pushing through an opening in a patch of lacey ferns that formed one edge of the glistening lagoon she'd seen when she and Jones emerged from the tunnels. Raindrops plopped on its surface, sending little plumes of water upward with every drop. The waterfall was several stories high and rushed in the distance, emptying into frothing waters at its base, roaring over the sound of the rain that was just beginning to slacken. A light mist hung over the dark water, and fireflies began winking like Christmas lights among the water lilies standing just inside the perimeter of the pool. It was beautiful.

She shouldn't waste anymore time. Pulling herself away from the edge of the lagoon, she followed the path around to the waterfall, seeing a small inlet where a person could easily slip behind the cascade. The rock was covered in mossy lichens, and she reached out a tentative hand for balance as she moved behind the deafening fall, remembering Mac's instructions.

"_Once you reach the backside of the waterfall, you'll have to jump through to access the dimension in between realms," he said, shuffling through the papers on the desk._

"_Jump through? Are you insane? What's going to keep me from drowning?" she asked alarmingly, her heart speeding up at the mere thought. _

"_Don't worry. It's only a door, not really a waterfall at all. You may have to hold your breath, at least I recommend that you do, but it shouldn't be all that difficult." He smiled then, and some of her fear left her, but there was still that niggling little thought that maybe she shouldn't be so hasty as to leave Jones behind._

"_Shouldn't be all that difficult," she repeated dryly, "Have you ever done it?"_

"_No, but then, I've never needed to. I can tell you this with certainty. You _will_ be successful. I've seen it." He sounded tired, and didn't offer up anymore information, but that knowledge alone did much to steady her._

"_Fine then, anything else?" she asked, her tone sharper than she intended._

"_Only that time is not constant once you've crossed over. Nothing is fixed. If you see a clear stream of water, fill your canteen, don't count on being able to return to it. It's possible to fall asleep under a rock and wake up in a swamp." He glanced at her appalled expression and continued, "It's the nature of the place, not much you can do about it except bear through to the end. Be wary of anyone you meet, but you may ask for help or information. Keep your dagger with you at all times and always be ready to defend yourself. I can't give you much more than that because I can't see very far past the door." He finally found the paper he was looking for, underneath a large stack. It was covered with some kind of strange writing and he used one long finger to peruse it line by line. _

"_How do I get out of there?" she asked._

_He waited until he'd reached the end of the page, slapping it back down on the desktop with a finality that made her jump. "I was only checking to see if I'd left anything out." He looked her square in the face. "Like I said, I'm not entirely sure. You'll have to make your way to the door of time, and chances are you'll have to find the key first. I think it works by holding something in your mind. So if you want to find the key to the door of time, hold that in your mind and your steps will be led toward it, although there's no telling how long it will take you to get there. And of course it goes without saying: you don't want to get stuck 'in between'." _

_He emphasized the 'in between' like it was the name of hell itself, known only to those foolish enough to have traversed its depths. His eyes turned very serious for the first time since she'd met him and she knew then that any hope he had for her success was just that, hope; he didn't know one way or another how this was going to end. Her gut sunk to her knees as she realized she was truly on her own, with no guarantees. Not even her mother's voice echoing in her ear, telling her to have faith was enough to quell the sickening feeling._

Removing her cutlass from her waist, she stuffed it in her bag, the hilt sticking out of the top like some denuded flagpole. She pulled out a length of rope and secured her pack to her torso, wrapping the rope around her chest several times before tying it. The pack contained all her food, the opal, the dagger, and her leather clothing that Isobel had thoughtfully cleaned, and she couldn't risk being separated from it.

It was now or never. Inhaling and exhaling several times to aerate her lungs so she'd be able to hold her breath longer—a trick she'd learned from swim team competitions—she gathered her courage, filled her lungs, then jumped into the heavy curtain of water.

====o0I0o====

It was hard to tell which sensation was most prominent. She was wet, soaked in fact, but by no means drowned. She had only fleetingly felt the pounding of the water on her head, for which she was grateful as she could only imagine the headache if it would've continued. But there was no swimming to be done per se, and everything was black like the darkest part of a cave as to be difficult to know whether her eyes were opened or closed.

Taking a quick inventory of her limbs and body, nothing hurt, although her chest felt constricted where the rope had tightened. She thought she might be standing, and became aware of a slight buzzing, as though a swarm of bees or wasps hung in the air nearby. The sound reverberated through her torso too, almost uncomfortably like the beginning of a spell of nausea.

Venturing a small step forward, the ground beneath her solid and reassuring, the darkness slowly gave way to an undefined grayness that was light and yet not light. It was nothing. There was absolutely nothing in any direction she looked, reminding her of the scenes on television where an actor is placed on a blank white screen before something unexpectedly pops up; only in her case the screen was gray. She glanced down, wondering what she was standing on, and could just make out the hard dull surface beneath her feet. Drips of water from her hair and clothing hit it in muted plops, but disappeared upon impact.

She didn't know what she had expected, maybe some sinister swamp that would scare her half to death with wild animals or poisonous pants and make her wish she would have said to hell with it all and taken Jones with her anyway. But not this.

What had Mac said? The key, she needed to reach the key to the door of time.

Before the thought had fully formed in her mind, the gray ground metamorphosed into stark wilderness; small blurred patches of what might be grass suddenly appeared on a dusty ground, with an occasional cluster of something like stones interrupting the flatness. The sky was still gray, but broken by different shades of the depressing color, and she could make out a few hazy clouds in the distance.

Squinting her eyes at one of the darker clusters, she seemed to be having trouble seeing it, like it was there but it wasn't. The entire landscape reminded her of an unfinished painting, the artist having not quite decided what he wants to paint and only briefly sketches tentative locations for things. She bent down to touch the darkened object, and was surprised to see that it did exist—a rock as she'd presumed—the edges coming into focus almost immediately, as though she'd been wearing a pair of someone else's eyeglasses and had taken them off.

Upright once more, she began walking, not worrying too much about direction since everything looked the same anyway, and as she moved, the terrain became more defined, the colors still drab, but sharper nonetheless.

Several hours of the same monotonous trek brought her no closer to anything recognizable as a landmark, and she found herself staring at the ground, patently wondering... No, she wouldn't think, couldn't think, and every time a stray thought about whether or not she'd made the right choice floated through her tired brain, she quickly stamped it down with her boots and continued walking, keeping her mind blissfully blank like the muted world around her.

A couple of times the sound of footsteps brought her head up, eyes darting around in heart-quickening fashion, but when she looked, nothing was there, nor was there a place for anything to hide, so she disregarded it and continued on her interminable walk.

It was a long time before she noticed the hunger gnawing at her stomach in conjunction with her waning energy. There was no telling how long it had been since her last meal, her body mostly having given over to a self-perpetuating numbness, but hours upon hours—the sky hadn't changed one wit for her to know for sure—of hiking, albeit a slow one, had finally depleted any leftover resources she may have had, and she knew she needed to eat and rest.

Looking around for a suitable place to sit, she saw, to her delight—which in and of itself should have been a clear indication of the bleakness of her situation—that the grass was taller and the rock clusters were larger, occurring with more frequency. In fact, the ground somewhat resembled the mountainside where she and Jones had been abducted by the pirates. Grateful for the change in terrain, even if it was rather minor, she found a large boulder carved out at the base and settled under its shadow to make a hasty camp.

Isobel had given her several sandwiches wrapped in plastic so they wouldn't get wet, beef jerky, granola bars, apples and carrot sticks. It reminded her of the lunches she used to pack for Henry and she bit into one of the peanut butter and jelly concoctions with a smile bordering on bliss. It'd been so long since she'd had a bite of soft bread, the sweet and salty combination of peanuts and strawberry jam, mmmm, her favorite.

Belly full, she wadded up her leather pants under her head and lay down, the large rock looming above her like some kind of sentinel, giving silent witness to her unassuming presence in a forgotten world. Wrapping her arms around her pack, and concentrating on the low buzzing sound that had never quite gone away, she promptly fell asleep.

====o0I0o====

She woke to whispered voices. Knowing better than to announce her wakefulness, she forced herself to still, listening with every cell in her body to determine the intentions of her visitors.

"Dis mus be 'er." A rasping sound accompanied the curious but stupid-sounding voice, and she imagined a middle aged man rubbing his chin, perhaps with a paunch hanging low over his belt, although she wouldn't check her speculation just yet.

"Yeah, whatcha suppose she doin' here?" This voice was nearly identical to his companion's, and seemed to come from a little behind the first.

"I don' know, but 'e wants 'er and what 'e wants, 'e gets." There was a pause, and then, "Man, she shur is perty. Been a long time since we seen anythin' like 'er." Both men stilled their small movements, her skin crawling as their beady eyes swept up and down her prone form.

"Well, if we're wantin' to _do_ anything," the word 'do' was stressed with an undertone that made Emma inwardly cringe, "We better make it quick 'fore t' others come."

There seemed to only be the two of them, and Emma wasn't about to find out what 'anything' meant. Keeping her breathing slow and steady to feign sleep and fighting the urge to gulp the air and fuel her now trip-hammering heart, she prepared her mind and her muscles for the inevitable fight. Her right hand was underneath her pack, hidden from view, and she was sure she could get her hand into the front pocket and grab her dagger without the movement being detected, at least she hoped.

Sensing that one of the men was bending over her to take a closer look, her eyes popped open, barely registering the face of the lumbering form above her before she quickly wrapped her left arm around his neck, removing her right hand from the pocket, dagger ready. He was off-balance and just beginning to struggle, but in one fluid motion, she brought the dagger up underneath his breastbone, stabbing hard and deep, angling toward his heart. The man flopped a couple of times and relaxed, his weight crushing her as it suddenly descended on top of her like a bag of boulders, foul breath exhaling wetly over her face. He was huge and heavy and just about knocked the wind out of her.

Gasping like a fish out of water as she attempted to wriggle out from under the massive body, the second man came up beside her and pressed a sharp point to her neck.

"Don' move, miss, and mayhap we can come to an understandin' like."

She stilled, angry at herself for getting into this position in the first place—why hadn't she moved aside before killing the bastard?—and waited while the man kicked her first assailant aside, the heavy body rolling over like a bowl of limp jello.

"Now ge' up… slowly. An' keep yer 'ands where's I can see 'em." He was wary, eyes narrow slits as they darted over his shoulder every few seconds, holding a knife in one hand and a curved sword in the other, both pointed at her in case she should try anything else. He was as big as the first man, a red bulbous nose covering a good portion of his pock-marked face, the kind of man that'd be at home in a seedy bar, drowning in a bottle of something cheap; but his eyes were clear, and he wasn't stumbling.

She rolled to her side slowly, eyes widened as she took in the changed terrain while still trained on the man's chest in case he should decide to attack. The boulder she'd sheltered under was gone, the rock-strewn landscape replaced with a hard-packed sandy soil that stretched for miles in every direction. Her brain once again quickly registered dismay at the lack of available landmarks, at the same time as consolation at seeing the terrain at least lent itself to fighting.

She was still holding the dagger, and as luck would have it, her hand was partially hidden under the body of the first man. Recognizing this as her only chance, she wrenched her arm free and swung the dagger in a wide arch, jumping to her feet in a crouch. Having anticipated her move, he swooped back, a half-smile lifting one of his fleshy cheeks to his eye socket as he glanced at her with interest.

Before she could fully recover, he lunged forward and pierced her left arm in a quick jabbing motion with his sword; the cut wasn't deep but she grunted with pain and scrabbled back to gain some distance. Unfortunately, he had the advantage of two weapons, one extending his reach beyond hers, and he could move quickly despite his bulk. She had to let him get close enough to lose the advantage of the sword, and force him into hand-to-hand combat where her dagger could cut through bone like it was butter. That was the plan anyway; her hand was shaking from the fear, but Emma Swan had learned to fight, and win, afraid.

They circled each other for only a moment as each decided the best way to attack. Faking to the right, she dodged under his sword arm and twisted, her dagger slicing through the center of his palm, a deep gash that parted the muscles enough to force him to drop the longer weapon. _Good. Even ground now. _

Screaming with rage and agony, he whirled on her, moving so swiftly she almost didn't see his next move. He dove in front of her and then appeared at her right side, quickly slicing her right wrist and making it hard to keep hold of her dagger. She rotated her arm in a wide arc aimed at his head before switching the knife to her left hand, earning her own slash across his forehead. It was deep and the blood began pouring down his face, his eyes blinking furiously to clear his vision. He grabbed for her then, almost blindly, and nearly knocked her down. Wrapping his injured arm around her waist, he lashed out at her left side with his blade, a bone-jarring jab to the ribs that shattered through her limbs. Stunned by the blow, she lifted her arms to hug him back in a death grip, a parody of a romantic embrace, maneuvering her left hand up to his neck for the kill.

He stumbled forward then, sending them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs. His left hand was free and he madly slashed it back and forth at anything he could reach. The blade cut through the muscle in her left arm, the limb immediately going limp, and no matter how hard she yelled at it to move, the most it would do was rock from side to side.

Suddenly terribly exhausted, the weight of his writhing body pushing the last of her breath out of her lungs, she felt her mind lift out of her body, hovering above the scene and looking down with a bemused expression, detached, all while wondering if this was how she was meant to die. It would only take one quick swipe of his knife just there, across her throat…

By now she was covered in blood, her eyes staring sightlessly up at the fixed gray sky. He frantically fumbled for his face to wipe the blood and sweat out of his eyes, and rolled to his right to get off of her, having felt her body go limp. That was his mistake.

Returning to her body with a gasp, and cradling her last ounce of strength like it was more precious than diamonds, she pointed the dagger upward and drew her arm in ever so slightly, his large body rolling over the upright blade. He must not have felt the separation of skin and sinew because he tried to sit up, a stripe of red blood widening horizontally across most of his back, including a kidney. He turned his head toward her like a marionette puppet, nothing else moving as two thick eyebrows raised in a straight line across his forehead, opening his slitted eyes enough to reveal the blackness of his pupils as they stared at her in curious surprise before he fell back, a cloud of dust poofing around him in mocking acceptance. _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…_

Her pulse slowly returned to normal as she lay on the hard-packed earth next to the dead man's bulk, the cloying stench of his sweat and a stink she'd rather not contemplate covering her face like a cloth she wished she could brush aside. She settled for inching her body a few feet away from him, resting as she slowly assessed the damage. A deep gash on each arm and a sharp pain concentrated on the left side of her ribcage constituted the worst of it. She couldn't quite feel the extent of the pain, but knew it was only a matter of time before she did.

She would use magic to heal her wounds, gather her things and get the hell out of there.

Reigning in her consciousness, carefully keeping her mind blank and her emotions at bay, she began reaching outward, attempting to connect with the landscape around her.

But something was wrong. Maybe because the landscape was undefined, or maybe because she was so tired, her magic wouldn't build in any definable way that she could direct. It was there, and it was strong, hovering nearby like a cloud of smoke, but dispersed, and she couldn't gather enough of it together to fully heal her wounds. The best she could manage was to stop the bleeding to a light ooze; her body would have to do the rest.

Standing up gingerly, wincing as her leg muscles protested from all the recent exercise, she risked a momentary glance at her two attackers. They were twins. That should have surprised her, she knew, but for some reason, it just seemed like the most normal thing in the world to have been attacked by brothers.

Knowing sleep was impossible until she was far away, she bent down to gather her things that had come loose from her pack in the struggle. Still feeling somewhat disembodied, she raised her head at the sound of more footsteps. _Damn! It must be 't' others'_. She'd hoped she'd have more time to get away.

Stalking directly toward her were a couple more men, another set of twins. They were as huge as the first two men, but thinner, more athletic-looking. But what really caused her heart to jump up into her throat and nearly choke her with its unwelcome presence was that they appeared to be mirror images of each other. One held a sword in his right hand, the other held it in his left. One had a lazy eye on the right side of his face, the other on the left. Both had teeth gritted in dogged determination, the opposite edges of their mouths turned up, chins jutted forward toward Emma. _What the hell?_

She groaned and rolled her eyes out of habit, ignoring the pain in her side as she grabbed her cutlass and faced them both with what she hoped was an expression of willful resistance. Then out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blur streak across the landscape, moving at top speed behind the two men. So focused on their purpose, they never saw it coming. An obscure white form ran up the side of one man, across his shoulder and the front of his neck before jumping to the shoulder of the second man, moving across his neck as well and then jumping down lightly, landing on four delicate paws where it promptly sat down and began cleaning itself.

It was a fox. And Emma suddenly knew exactly what had been following her since the tunnels. The disjointed step she hadn't been able to place was that of a four-legged animal, a white fox.

The two men who had been moments before bearing down on her with steel in their strides were now still as doorposts, staring wide-eyed with identical expressions of surprised horror. Their necks had been torn open, and they collapsed in a heap side by side.

Very nearly crying out in sheer relief, Emma crumpled to the ground in her own heap, an icy finger of sweat worming its way down her spine slow enough to chill her whole body—although not nearly enough to dull her pain—as her mind tried to comprehend the fight she had just been spared.

But her moment of relief was short lived when another set of mirror-image twins appeared just beyond the collapsed bodies like they'd formed from the ground itself, striding toward her with the same singular purpose, this time armed on opposite sides with bows and arrows. They wouldn't chance hand-to-hand combat again.

Emma felt as if she were watching a movie of someone else's life, the impossibility of the situation bearing down on her like a bull chasing a red cape. And as if things couldn't get worse, the white fox, her recent and only ally in this strange world, suddenly dissolved into a patch of bleached sand, leaving her alone with the tenacious men.

Still strangely detached, a bubble of crazed laughter threatened to burst from her lips, but all she could manage was a quiet _oomph _as she realized they weren't going to stop coming, no matter how many she took out.

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**Aak, Emma! I know, she really needs Jones. *SIGH* for Emma's habit of running... Let me know what you think... reviews inspire the muse, and this next bit is tricky...**


	19. The Sound of Obedience

_It's been a long month, you guys! But hopefully I'm back on track with regular posts. We've been following Emma for a bit, and the end of this chapter picks up with Jones, so if it's confusing, you can check out ch 17 for a quick refresher of where he was when we left off. Enjoy!~DD_

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Chapter 19: The Sound of Obedience

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Three days. What was it with three days? Was that the amount of time it took for the human brain to finally surrender itself to the needs of the body, willing to do just about anything for a cup of water or a mouthful of food? Or was it some cosmic joke, a favorite number of someone pulling the puppet strings of her life? Did they think three days was all she could handle? Well, piss on them.

But for all her bravado, Emma thought maybe they were right. After three days locked in the disgusting hole filled with the scraps and slime of whatever was in there before—it was an effort not to imagine—three days _was_ all she could handle, and Emma found herself hugging her knees in the center of the roughly five foot square dirt pit, rocking back and forth and humming to herself like some crazed madwoman. Each day someone had lowered a bucket filled with an inch or two of water, so she'd been able to keep barely alive, rationing each drop until she couldn't bear another moment without a sip. Blood seeped from the wound in her side, every breath a painful reminder of it, and the dank filth surrounding her had permeated her blood-crusted clothing. Her only respite was when her mind would finally succumb to a half-dead stupor, where no thought or feeling penetrated, unfortunately including sleep. If this wasn't hell, she wasn't sure what was.

From what she'd been able to see before the twins had dumped her in the prisoner hole, she was being held in the middle of a courtyard of some sort, surrounded on all sides by stone and brick buildings, sometimes a combination of both, as if the builder couldn't decide which material to go with. The paths between the buildings were lined with grass, broken by short, full-bodied trees and the occasional box hedge or stone bench. It reminded her of a college campus, and she had just been able to picture students hurrying to class or congregating under the trees. The disadvantage of the layout was that if she could find a way to escape, she'd be seen from any number of angles by those possibly lurking in the shadows of the buildings—not that it mattered since she hadn't been able to use magic in her severely weakened state.

By the end of the day—the gray sky having darkened sufficiently enough to be distinguishable from what she was calling daytime—a loud scraping noise gained her attention as the grate overhead was pulled back and a ladder lowered down.

"Miss… Miss… Hey there!" A voice filtered down to her, and she looked up to see a man bending over the edge of the hole, his face in shadow. "Climb up, Miss, the curator will see you now." The Irish lilt to his voice was vaguely familiar, and Emma blinked several times trying to remember… squinting up at him as his instruction slowly registered in her sluggish brain.

It took a minute to get her feet under her, and she stumbled like a leggy new colt, grabbing the rungs of the ladder for support, breath coming heavily as she slowly and painfully climbed upward, arm wounds screaming with each grasp, legs convulsing from the effects of malnutrition and confinement.

As her head emerged from the hole, two dark brown hikers and gray pants came into view, all covering two very trim yet muscular legs. She lifted her eyes further to see a gray vest buttoned over his dark blue shirt and tie. Still further, and she was staring into the face of, "Graham!"

Flailing backward from the force of her exclamation, a strong arm pulled her forward and off the ladder in one continuous move. Yet just as she was about to put her arms around his neck and hug the man who'd once been a close friend, he was gone, knocked to the ground by a sturdy blow to the head.

She stared in disbelief, mouth gaping at his fallen form, when a pair of hands grabbed her roughly, pulling her into a solid chest.

"Emma! What are you doing here? You shouldn't… you shouldn't…" He was choking on his words, and she pulled back to confirm that she was indeed in Graham's arms, and not alone once more. Confounded by a fog of thought and emotion, palpable relief overwhelmed her, and then, questions.

"How are you… what is he…?" Her voice came out in a congested whisper, so parched she couldn't put any sound into it as she stared horrified at Graham's unconscious double before turning back to her friend. Soft eyes beheld her with the same expression as the one from the day he'd died; he looked the same, scruffy-faced and somewhat sad.

"It's some kind of magic. He calls us… and we come… anyone who's ever had their heart crushed. The curator monitors the doors, captures us, and if we're slated to become guards, we're copied," he shuddered, "and then put to work. He controls us completely… I can hear him in my head…" He lifted a hand to his ear and scrunched his eyes as if in pain. "But that thing… the copy… the curator knows what they're thinking and I had to buy you some time."

"I watched you die, we… we buried you." Still ensconced in his embrace, her heart was beginning to beat a little more quickly now.

"There's not much time, so just listen. The curator. He's dangerous, don't provoke him." She must have looked skeptical; his lips turned up into an amused half-smile, gone almost as fast as it had appeared. "He'll question you…" his face darkened, "Try to give him as little information as you can. We have no word of the outside world, so he'll want to know. Protect your mind."

"What does he want with the information?"

"The same thing we all do, to get out." His expression softened even further, and his gaze had landed on her lips.

A door to one of the buildings slammed open and two pairs of men emerged, running toward them in a straight line. Graham glanced worriedly in their direction, but when he looked back at her, he smiled gently. "Be strong, Emma, and I'll do everything I can to find you." He bent his head down and touched his lips to hers to seal his promise, breaking away when one of the men violently punched him in the side of the face, the other landing a swift kick to his knee, hastily dragging him off between them.

"Remember what I told you!" he shouted, not even bothering to struggle against his captors.

The other set of guards grabbed her roughly by either arm and yanked her toward the entrance of another building, the cut on her wrist stinging from the sweat on his hand. Her head was pounding from dehydration—or maybe from the questions hammering around in her mind. _Graham? Here? _

The guard pulled open one side of the double glass door and the three of them sidled in. The long hallway was painted a drab green with cold florescent lights and a dingy tiled floor, closed doors on either side, not unlike the institutions of horror films. There were smudges of undefined filth on the walls and floors, crusted dirty corners and collections of dust and hair balls sweeping ahead of them as they walked. The air was thick, humid and probably foul, but nothing could overcome her own stench encapsulating her like a noxious cloud.

They turned abruptly to the right, down another passage, the mist shrouding her mind breaking up to reveal patches of fear and… curiosity of all things peeking through. She was completely bedraggled, weaponless, frail, weak and wounded, and beginning to get angry.

The large heavy door made no sound as the guard opened it and she was dragged into a cavernous stone dungeon, empty except for several sets of rusty shackles placed at intervals along the rounded wall, smears of dried blood underneath each set.

"Wait, you're not putting me in those?" She dug her heels into the floor, heart thumping madly in her ears and belatedly noticing her feet were bare as they scraped against the coarse stone. Where the hell were her boots?

They pulled more roughly, seemingly without effort, but Emma was quickly filling with fear, and fear could be a powerful motivator.

"No! I won't!" she yelled, wrenching her arms free from their grasp and twisting toward the door, ready to run. But the door wasn't there. The room was round, with no door, only the rusty sets of shackles gaping open, disembodied and ready to swallow their next victims. She kept turning around and around—there had to be a way out—but there was none, and the men standing before her faded out of focus, disappearing, only to be replaced by someone else entirely with a large mouth pulled into a grin, black eyes boring holes into her throbbing head. The room was spinning, round and round and round and then… nothing but shadowy darkness.

====o0I0o====

She shook her head violently as another bucket of ice water was thrown in her face, its force stinging her nose, effectively keeping her from losing consciousness again. The flow dribbled down her skin, soaking her clothes, blood and slime pooling underneath her feet. Cold. So cold. The hard stone siphoned the warmth from her bones and she shivered violently, breathing deeply to control the powerful tremors that made every muscle in her body ache.

"Open your eyes." The voice said. It was a command, plain and simple, and the rebellious part of her wondered what would happen if she didn't.

A thin, reedy sound rose through the air, hovering just above her eyelids, and her eyes popped open with an unnatural strength; she couldn't have clenched them tight enough even if she'd wanted to.

The curator.

He was tall, lanky and cadaverous, dressed in several different colors—almost clown-like—with purple woven pants, scarlet shirt, and a satin cloak with narrow sleeves, sunshine yellow and edged in black to match his eyes. His ebony hair shone like onyx, plastered back as smooth as the stone it resembled. And if that wasn't creepy enough, his feet were shoved into a pair of black ballet pointe shoes and he was standing on his tiptoes.

Emma had never encountered that kind of crazy evil before, emanating from the screwball angle of his head as he studied her, to his right leg, bent at the knee and extending behind him. A long table filled with bowls of food sat next to him, mocking her with delicious smells she'd give anything to taste. He dropped his foot to the ground.

"Welcome, Miss… I don't believe I have the pleasure of your name." His voice was deeper than she'd expected and his breath fluttered with a tiny gasp of excitement.

"Let's keep it that way, shall we?" she retorted, struggling to catch her breath from her watery awakening.

He held a thin pipe she assumed was the source of the sound she'd heard before, and he lifted it delicately to his lips with uncommonly long fingers, fingernails filed to sharp points. He played a brief tune. "Again, your name."

The knife-like sounds sifted through her brain painfully, and she would have grabbed her ears if her hands were free. The answer to his question flew from the back of her mind, to her lips and out without her permission. "Emma Jones."

Oh, hell. That must be what Graham meant when he'd said, 'Protect your mind'. But how was she supposed to do that?

"That's better."

"Who are you?" she managed weakly.

"Nicholas Stranger, man of many… talents, let's say. And now that we're on a first name basis, we can share a meal together. I want you somewhat revived for our discussion." He smiled again without moving any muscle in his face other than his lips, as though they weren't attached, revealing very white teeth, almost bluish and glowing.

He danced toward her with a cup in his hand, the top half of his body perfectly still as the bottom half wiggled in her direction, stopping just short of the filthy pool at her feet. Lifting the cup to her lips, she tasted warm water and drank thirstily, the heat radiating down her chest and into her stomach with each sip, dispelling a little of her chill.

"Not too much, too quickly, or you'll be sick," he admonished in a sing-song tone.

Tip-toeing back over to the table, he picked up a bowl of something steaming. It looked like stew, and it smelled heavenly. He delicately speared a chunk of some kind of meat on one of his fingernails and held it in front of her mouth. If she wouldn't have been so hungry, she would have been repulsed, but she bit, expecting it to be rancid or somehow ruined, surprised that it was hot and delicious. He continued feeding her, slowly, watching her with a slightly open mouth that occasionally opened and closed in time with her bites.

When she was finished, he set the bowl back on the table, picked up a towel to dry his hands, and then pulled out his pipe from the pocket he'd slipped it into.

The water and the meat did much to restore her spirit, and she began frantically thinking of ways to protect her mind from the fiend, ignoring the raw skin on her wrists from rubbing against the metal shackles. She shifted her arms to see if she could get a better position, or a different one.

"Now to business. How did you get here?"

"What's it to you?" she asked without stuttering, stalling for time and knowing she was still mostly bluster at this point, but why make it easy on him?

"I would prefer to do this without duress." He jiggled the pipe back and forth. "Shall we try again? How did you get here?"

"What do you plan on doing with me?" she snapped, being contrary, but she wanted to know how far she could push him, find his weakness.

He sighed heavily and put the pipe to his lips, playing the same brief tune. Once again the sounds filed through her thoughts until they found the answer they sought, lugging it painfully past her lips. "Through the door."

"Which door?" he asked frantically, and not bothering with the cat and mouse game, he put the pipe to his lips and blew.

Her ears screamed in protest until the answer could be found in her mind, once again flying from her mouth. "The waterfall in the Enchanted Forest," her mouth answered.

He stilled, his face falling into seriousness for the first time, and she could literally see him thinking. Taking advantage of the moment, she closed her eyes, concentrating on what had just happened. It seemed that the sounds could only penetrate the thoughts that were floating unattached to anything. Her most precious memories, her family, Killian, her deepest thoughts and feelings seemed to be protected somehow. Emma knew how to build walls around her heart, didn't she? Maybe she could get everything Mac had told her behind a wall…

He interrupted her with another question. "Why are you here?"

This time she let him play his tune so she could pay attention to what was happening in her mind, ignoring the screeching sounds as they combed her thoughts. She let the answer rise up. The sounds grabbed it and pulled it out of her mouth. "I came to get home to my own time." She jerked her eyes open. _Got it._

"And how do you plan on getting out?" He leaned forward slightly at the waist, anticipating her answer as he put the pipe to his lips.

This one was important. Finding the answer before the music did, she stuffed it behind a wall of fury over what was happening to her. The search continued, and she put another answer forward instead. "I don't know yet. I figured it would come to me when it was time."

He guffawed. "That makes no sense. No one who comes here on purpose enters without a plan. What's yours?" he asked briskly, playing again.

Again she dodged the answer. "No plan. I like spontaneity," she stated, staring into his eyes indifferently.

"Are you intentionally deceiving me?" He played again, studying her closely.

"Is that possible?" she asked, curious enough to make him sneer, but not before she saw the flicker of uncertainty cross his face.

"Not that I know of," he declared confidently. "We'll resume tomorrow." He pressed his pointed feet together and bowed deeply. Lifting the pipe to his lips, he played two notes and said, "Sleep."

And she did.

====o0I0o====

Storms had always fascinated Killian Jones. He loved them, even more so when he was watching them from afar, dry, rather than soaking wet and manning the wheel or rigging of his ship. The one from the previous night had lulled him into a sound sleep, and he woke to a crystal clear sky that matched his renewed vigor, relieved now that he had worked out what he wanted to say to Emma. He loved her more than enough to trust her with their future, and he would let her take the lead without pressure, without unnecessary affection on his part if that was her wish.

Stretching languidly, he glanced around the room, almost sorry that the bright weather would likely see Swan and him on their way once again, bringing them closer to the day she would leave and he would forget.

Standing up and gathering his belongings, he made a hasty toilet with a bit of the leftover water from his bath the previous evening. Once more dressed in his leather—someone had thoughtfully cleaned and slipped his garments onto the chair near the door—he reluctantly walked across the hall to Emma's room, more nervous than he'd been the previous evening when he'd seen her in that striking green gown, the color setting off her sparkling eyes. She was so beautiful, sassy and smart, the kind of woman he could fast become accustomed to waking next to for the rest of his life… His stomach lurched, realizing it would be a long time before he could have such a thing.

He paused to take a deep breath, gathering his courage the way he gathered jewels off rich ladies, and knocked on the door, opening it when there was no answer. Her room looked much like his: a wardrobe, a large tub where she'd obviously washed, a chair opposite, and the drapes pushed back. But no Emma. Where the devil was she at this hour? He usually woke well before she did.

With a furrowed brow, he made his way downstairs, figuring she must be at breakfast with Mac. The dining room was empty, so he followed the sound of voices, stopping just shy of what must be the scullery.

"Ye've antagonized that lass since she arrived," Isobel said to the sound of water splashing.

Killian stilled his steps, listening just beyond the door.

"Such a harsh word, antagonized. _Helped_ is more like it. It's for the lad's benefit anyway. Miss Swan looked like she needed an extra push," Mac said good-naturedly.

"Meddling' auld fool," Isobel mumbled, a large splat of water hitting the floor.

"And I suppose your conversation with Mr. Jones last night is different?" he asked with amusement, and Killian could just imagine Mac's knowing grin.

The scrubbing stopped. "Of course. I was merely warnin' him… to keep her safe."

"It's still involving yourself, attempting to persuade him to choose a particular course of action. Admit it, you can't keep your hands out of it either."

"Hmpf." The scrubbing started up again, more forcefully.

"It's true love, _mo shearc_, and true love knows no time," Mac said wistfully.

A bad feeling was suddenly looming over Killian like a cloud of midges, and he abruptly entered the room to find Mac, looking much younger and leaner, leaning against a long table, puffing on a pipe while Isobel washed a large pot in a bucket of water.

"Where's Emma?" he asked without preamble.

They both turned toward him, eyes widened in surprise at the intrusion.

"She left several hours ago." Mac took a long pull on his pipe, exhaling disinterestedly. Isobel went back to washing her pot.

Every muscle in Killian's body tensed and he stared at his host and hostess in disbelief. She left? Why in the name of all gods would she leave now, before they had completed her quest? Didn't she understand she needed his assistance… and more importantly, his protection?

"Well, are you going after her or not?" Mac interrupted Killian's thoughts with a series of smoke rings floating gently across the room in his direction, turning gray eyes on Killian with a look that seemed to strike right through him.

Killian finally found his voice, astonishment giving way to anger. "Did she say anything?" His mind didn't stop working. He would quickly grab his bag, replenish his food supplies and then track her…

"Only that I was to give this to you," Mac pulled a small bottle out of his pocket, "And convince you to drink it." His eyes were twinkling now, in conspiracy.

Killian caught his look and narrowed his eyes. "But you won't, will you," he stated.

"Convince you? No. She may have made her choice, but you haven't made yours, and you should be given the opportunity to do so. And I think you understand the implications of the timeline. It's guaranteed that if you drink this potion, you will meet Miss Swan in approximately three hundred years, fall in love with her and get married."

"And if I don't?" Killian raised one brow in curiosity.

Mac's smile turned mischievous. "Then everything is up for grabs."

"Give me the potion," Killian commanded.

"So you're going to drink it?" Mac tilted his chin down, regarding him beneath thick lashes. Isobel had stopped washing to add her own interested gaze.

"Not yet. I'm going after her." Killian would find her and then deal with her running away. And he wasn't going to let her out of his sight, even if that meant sleeping with one eye open.

"Good. Isobel will pack your provisions." Mac was smiling fully now, his voice gaining steam. "You know the path behind the house, take the first fork to the right and continue on. It will snake around until you come to the waterfall. You've seen it from the tunnel exit?" At Killian's nod he continued, "There's an opening behind it. You need to go behind the waterfall and then walk through the water."

"Through the waterfall?" he questioned, confused. Isobel dried her hands and moved over to a pantry where she began pulling out what looked like dry rations.

"Yes. It's a door," he said impatiently. "Hold Miss Swan in your mind when you go through and you'll find her quickly enough. Time doesn't run the same once you're 'in between'. Now go and get your things, Miss Swan knows everything else and you've lost too much time as it is. Oh, and Mr. Jones…"

Killian had already turned toward the door, ready to sprint back up the stairs, but stopped at the sound of his name, mid-stride. "Aye?"

"Once you enter the waterfall, you cannot return until she unlocks the door of time. Godspeed, son."

And with that, Mac turned his head to the ceiling, puffing smoke rings and regarding them like the next great translation of an ancient manuscript, the only sounds those of Isobel collecting tins and opening jars. Killian was dismissed.

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**I know it's hard reading stories one chapter at a time and having to wait 'in between' (pun intended!) but I appreciate every one of you for taking the time to follow, fave, and/or review. **

**Can you guess who our villain is?**


	20. Revelations of a Personal Nature

_Beta-read by letheimorai, for whom I am most grateful._

_Hi All! Welcome to all my new followers. A few of you have suggested that Emma might be in Wonderland because of the twins. I don't know much about Wonderland, and I've never seen OUATIW. No, this place is entirely of my own making, truly AU. The mirror-image clones were born out of my kids watching Star Wars Clone Wars (anything can be a source of inspiration!)_

_I've included a conversation between Emma and Jones—trying to flesh out why Killian is the way he is (my own personal interest—total speculation. But how did Killian make the jump from straight-laced Lieutenant to pirate so easily?) So bear with me, it matters later in the story._

_This chapter really goes along with the previous one and acts as a transition. Not much happens action-wise, but we do learn more. Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 20: Revelations of a Personal Nature

* * *

It would be so much easier if she were dead. But as Emma's tired mind fought its way toward consciousness, slogging through the mire of despair that longed to drag her back under, she realized with a groan she was anything but lifeless.

Pain. Pain must be what kept bringing her back to awareness, unable to allow her even a minimal escape from its torment. Both arms hurt badly, but paled in comparison to the fire in her side. The deep throb depleted what little energy she had left and she shivered convulsively from a bone-aching chill. Her clenched mouth reminded her of the only Bible verse she had ever related to: the one about hell, 'where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth'. If there was any gnashing of teeth, it was here and it was now.

Or maybe thirst had brought her back; her mouth was so dry she could barely lick her lips, and her tongue seemed to have swollen to twice its size.

Or maybe… Maybe it was Killian… No, Jones. A memory of him, of a conversation they'd had after escaping the pirates on the way to dropping John and Kenna back to their home. The happy children had skipped ahead, looking for bugs and leaves and generally entertaining themselves, when Jones had mentioned yet another tidbit about Mrs. Fritz. Intrigued by the frequency with which he spoke of her, Emma happened to ask where his childhood caretaker was; only to find out she had died before Liam had.

Curled on her side with both hands wedged between her thighs in an effort to generate warmth, the scene played out on the backs of her eyelids, a welcome distraction from her current wretchedness.

"_How did she die?" Emma asked respectfully, watching the children giggle over something they'd found._

_He didn't answer for a long time. So long, in fact, she thought he might have forgotten the question. When he did speak, it wasn't the answer she had expected._

"_I never called her Mother the entire time I knew her." His lips formed a half-smile full of regret, and he sighed deeply before going on. "I was newly in her care, still reeling over my father's abandonment. Liam had just returned to his post with the Navy, and I was trying to act like none of it bothered me. I climbed up to the roof of the barn to escape the grief, as if it were possible," he added under his breath, "and I watched her circle the farm, hands cupped to her mouth and calling. I never made a sound, but she finally stopped at the edge of the pasture and looked up as if she sensed where I was. I remember her red-rimmed eyes, bright blue with tears. She ordered me down right away, saying the roof wasn't safe and needed to be repaired. But I laughed at her, told her I could care for myself."_

_Emma had been watching him as he spoke and she missed her footing on a small hole in the path, but he caught her elbow before she could fall. She smiled; he was so lost in his story he seemed completely unaware that he'd even touched her, the small gesture speaking volumes of his awareness of her._

"_It was a thatched roof with a weak spot, and when I moved to the other side to get away from her worried gaze, I fell through. I landed on the edge of a large pile of hay and tumbled to the ground, twisting my ankle. It was enough of an impetus to unlock the grief I'd been carrying, and I cried. All I said over and over was 'I want my mum', even though I couldn't actually remember her. Mrs. Fritz hurried over, pulled me up against her bosom and held me tight, croodling in my ear and rocking back and forth. She was the only mother I would ever know."_

_He paused, taking a deep breath and smiling at one of the children distractedly, eyes still seeing the past._

"_When I was sixteen, I met a lad from town. Mrs. Fritz didn't like him, said he was a bad influence. But I was callous and impulsive at the time. I admired his quick wit and even quicker hand—he was a pickpocket, you see, taught me everything I know." He smiled then, a little proud of the skill even if it was a dishonest one._

"_She and I quarreled about him. She told me 'friends make the man' and I should surround myself with honorable young men like my brother. But Liam wasn't around and I was lonely and stuck with an old woman most of the time." He looked abashed and scratched behind his ear in discomfort._

_His voice lowered, and his words came less easily. "I left. For three days. Went into town with my new 'friend' and learned to play cards, or rather, cheat at cards, all the while practicing my new trade. I came home with jewels, watches, money. But when I walked in the door of the cottage, I knew. I knew something was wrong. I didn't smell stew on the hearth or bread baking. She was gone. Had died the day before, collapsed carrying a pail of milk. A neighbor found her and had her laid out already. She had died while I was out carousing and up to no good." _

"_I'm sorry." The two words were grossly inadequate for the depth of emotion he was expressing, so Emma threaded her fingers through his, hoping the simple touch could convey her sympathy. He looked down at their linked hands briefly before turning his gaze forward again._

"_I swore from that point on I'd be the kind of man she'd be proud of. I swore off rum, gave up the cards and thieving, turned into quite a straight-laced gentleman," he said soberly. He looked sad, conflicted, and she wanted to pull him into her arms and let him know it was okay to be a good guy._

"_What happened to _him_?" she teased quietly, playfully nudging her shoulder into his arm and hoping to pull him out of his depressing thoughts._

_It worked. He turned twinkling blue eyes on her and winked conspiratorially. "Threw him overboard at the first opportunity, on grounds of being too tiresome for the likes of a pirate." _

_They laughed, and she squeezed his hand before letting go. _

But it was his next question and subsequent answer that had given her pause, made her wonder about the man who walked so casually by her side, sharing his personal stories like they hadn't just met, who was so much like her husband and yet different too.

_He let the laugh die between them, and once more his expression turned serious, this time with a hint of guilt, and she knew he wasn't finished confiding in her. "Have you ever felt yourself slipping?" _

Emma startled at the sound of a door being opened somewhere nearby and her eyes flew open to reveal her surroundings: a dank stone cell, devoid of anything except the tiny cot she was shivering on and a bucket in the corner. Given her experience to date, she was grateful for small mercies, as the cell seemed moderately clean, no rats, roaches or the remains of its previous occupants. A small barred window near the ceiling let in some light that mingled with the beams from the fluorescent bulbs in the hallway, streaming through a square grate in the wooden door.

Uncurling briefly and lifting her shirt, she saw an angry red line leading from the gash on her side toward her heart. She moaned and let her head fall back, wondering how long she'd last without some kind of medical attention.

That thought was followed almost immediately by a darkening of the light coming from the door. Emma looked up to see a wavering head, the bars of the grate cutting into a shadowed face with ghostly precision. The head moved back at the same time the click of the lock echoed through the cell, and a short, solid woman entered carrying a large zippered tote in one hand and a bucket in the other. She set both down next to the cot and placed a cool dry hand on Emma's forehead, regarding Emma with concerned golden-colored eyes.

"I've been summoned by Mr. Stranger to attend your wounds." Her voice was full and kind and brimming with compassion. _Thank God._

Emma closed her eyes and mouthed the word, "Water."

She helped Emma drink a few sips from a small canteen before replacing the cap and setting it down under the cot. "You have quite a fever. Let me see what we have here." Gently pressing Emma flat, she began dictating as she assessed the wounds; the only thing missing was the recorder.

"A laceration to the right wrist, a stab wound to the left arm, just above the elbow." She lifted Emma's shirt and Emma heard a sharp intake of breath. "Festering wound to the left ribcage. Here, let's get this off." Emma heard the cutting of cloth and cold air brushed across her torso, bare now except for the cloth she'd wound around her breasts in a makeshift bra.

The doctor dipped a rag into the bucket at her side and applied warm water to Emma's ribcage and arms, gently wiping away the caked blood and dirt from the last few days. When she came near the wounds, Emma winced, but she continued rinsing and cleaning.

"I'm sorry. I know it hurts, but the wounds are dirty and need stitches. I'll also need to give you a shot of antibiotic to stop the infection." She shook her head sadly. "I can't offer you anesthesia."

"Y-You have a-antibiotics but you d-don't h-have anesthesia?" Emma stammered through chattering teeth as her body shook with the chills.

"I didn't say I didn't _have_ anesthesia, only that I couldn't offer it to you," she clarified regretfully.

"Oh. F-Figures," Emma resigned.

The doctor readied her supplies, taking out sutures, metal tools and a curved needle, setting everything up on a clean, folded towel.

"W-What's w-with the P-Pied Piper? N-Nicholas Stranger, I th-think?" Emma stared at the ceiling, trying to count the stone blocks to distract from the doctor's poking.

"Oh, so you've heard of him? Most people who come here don't know. Makes him angry, I think," she whispered. She lifted a small vial and filled a syringe with a colorless liquid. "Antibiotic," she said, sticking the shot into Emma's hip.

Nothing would surprise Emma anymore, although she found that she often preferred the fairy tale version of villains rather than the reality, the Piper included.

"H-How d-did you c-come to be here?" Emma asked, as the doctor threaded her needle for the first suture.

"I'm not allowed to say." The doctor's eyes shifted from side to side and turned the color of rum, an unmistakable fear laced throughout her words. "Please don't ask me anything personal. If he finds out I said anything, I'll be _disciplined_."

"O-Oh, of course. S-Sorry. I d-didn't know." Emma didn't want to press, especially since she intended to make as many friends as possible, and hopefully garner some support for getting out of there.

"This is going to hurt, and I need you to be still, but I'll be as quick as possible. First your ribcage, then your left arm, then your wrist. Ready?" Emma nodded. "Oh wait. Here. You can bite down on this." She handed Emma a piece of worn leather, teeth marks indented on either side. Emma took it without a thought and bit down.

The sting was uncomfortable, a burning brand that moved much too slowly down her skin for her taste, but not as bad as she'd expected, and clamping down on the leather helped, it's slight saltiness causing her mouth to water. _I just have to make it out of here alive. _She held onto the thought as she stared at the ceiling, breathing deeply to slow the chills, feeling the now-familiar sting on her arm.

Sixty-four. There were sixty-four stones in the ceiling, and if they were twelve by twelve, then that made an eight foot square room…

"There. All done." The doctor put her needle back into a piece of cork and dropped it in her bag, pulling out a jar. She opened the lid and spread a foul-smelling salve over Emma's wounds, then bound each of them with clean cloths. Pulling out a large shirt, she helped Emma into it, careful of the wounds, then removed a folded blanket and covered her prone form with it, tucking the edges like a mother fussily tucking her child. She leaned and gently brushed the sweaty hair away from Emma's face with a faraway smile on her own, rubbing Emma's head with a delicate touch. Normally Emma would be reluctant to allow a complete stranger to touch her so affectionately, but something in the older woman's eyes made Emma think she needed the comfort more than Emma did. Relaxing back, her body began to warm under the wool blanket and the shivering subsided.

"You'll be alright. Just try to endure. And then he'll forget about you and put you to work like the rest of us. It's… easier that way." She looked away, ashamed, but then gathered her things and stood up. "I'll check on you tomorrow. You should feel better by then, once the antibiotic can kill some of the infection."

"Thanks," Emma said quietly, watching as the doctor slipped out the door and locked it firmly behind her.

====o0I0o====

"Emma!" Graham's sharp whisper echoed through her chamber. "Are you alright?" He sounded upset, and she heard a loud click as he unlocked the door, closing it behind him.

"Yeah… I think." The chills were gone, and she struggled to make it to a sitting position, the wound in her side screaming in protest as the blanket fell from her shoulders. Graham crouched down in front of her, taking her hands in his larger, cooler ones.

"You're on fire!" he exclaimed.

"The doctor left a little while ago. Gave me an antibiotic for the infection." She sighed with fatigue, looking at his roughened hands around hers, marveling at his solidness. He was alive! Her thoughts were coming excruciatingly slow, and she struggled to work out the implications of Graham being alive. But she couldn't work out anything, couldn't hold any thought in her head for longer than a couple of moments except that he was indeed alive.

He nodded. "Good."

She lifted her eyes to his face, noticing the dark reddish purple bruises around his left eye and the darkening patches on his chin. "What did they do to you?"

He looked down sheepishly. "Ah, it's nothing I can't handle. Nothing as bad as what Regina was capable of when she was in one of her moods," he chuckled, obviously trying to downplay the damage.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely, trying to convey all her sorrow for what had happened to him, for how he had been robbed of the life he was meant to live.

"Don't be. You're the first bit of hope I've had in a very long time." He smiled up at her and moved to sit beside her.

"Where's your… counterpart?" she asked. He had come alone, and she wondered how since she'd only ever seen the guards in their creepy mirror-image pairs.

"He's eating just now. I told him I wanted a few minutes to myself. The…copies… don't care too much about anything," he added.

"Oh." She squirmed slightly as her mind began to work again, uncomfortable with him. How was she going to tell him about Killian, about all that had changed with Storybrooke, about Regina and Henry…

"Tell me how you are, Emma. I have no idea how long I've been here, but I remember _everything_." He turned his head toward her expectantly, close… real… living.

"It's been about six years." Emma pulled the sleeve of her shirt away from her wrist to reveal his shoelace, still tied there. The shoelace she had never removed, a reminder of what could be. Killian had never asked her to take it off, just like she had never asked him to have his tattoo of Milah removed or altered. They understood each other like that.

"So that's where my boot lace has been… my link," he chuckled softly, touching the inside of her wrist with a finger. He lifted the legs of his pants and nodded to his hiking boots, one shoe with a brown lace that matched hers, the other black.

"I never forgot, Graham. In Storybrooke… maybe in life… once you move on, the edges of the memories fade, but I couldn't let that happen to you. You gave me hope that I could…"

The door at the end of the corridor squeaked open. Graham's eyes widened in alarm and he stood up, silently moving next to the cell door and pressing himself against the wall. The door opened, and a maid set a tray of food down on the floor. Her dark hair shrouded her face, and she left without comment before Emma could thank her for bringing her meal.

"I have to go before I'm missed." He pointed to the tray. "The food is good here, at least," he said, smiling. "I'll come back tomorrow, and maybe we can finish our conversation." He crossed the room swiftly to caress her cheek and then left without another word.

Emma gently lay back on her cot, closing her eyes, not really hungry anyway. How was she possibly going to tell Graham that she'd found love with someone else, when everything in his mannerisms indicated he was more than ready to pick up their relationship right where it had left off?

She fell asleep to fevered dreams of ballet slippers and shoelaces, fear and hope waltzing arm in arm, melding together into one beautiful nightmare.

====o0I0o====

"You don't age here," Stranger added as an afterthought, one long finger touching his chin, sitting sedately on a small wooden stool in front of her. She had been taken from her cell some time while sleeping, having awoken with the metal shackles scraping her still-raw wrists. Every shift of her body made the right shackle bite painfully into her stitched wrist and she grimaced, trying to keep as still as possible.

She rolled her eyes. "Great. So this goes on until you decide you have what you want." She was somewhat revived; her fever was lower and the extra-long sleep seemed to have been the best thing for her.

"Precisely. And I'm convinced you do in fact have what I want." His black eyes twinkled excitedly and his toes quietly patted the floor as he moved his knees up and down.

She lifted her eyes to his, managing a very dry expression with little effort. "Listen, buddy, if I had anything to give up, I would've done it by now."

"Perhaps. Perhaps I'm only asking the wrong questions." He shrugged a delicate shoulder and his head tilted at an impossible angle, making it look like it might pop off at any minute.

"When do I get to be done here?" she asked tiredly, but with a hint of petulance.

"Well, I was just about to decide that myself. This is becoming quite monotonous, and I do believe we may need to resort to more _drastic_ measures to coax the answers out of you." He took two sharp, quick intakes of breath with anticipation.

"What makes you think I have the answers you want?" She closed her eyes, wondering how much longer she was meant to endure this cat and mouse game, how long it would take for him to lose interest as the doctor had suggested.

"Because if you came through the waterfall, then you spoke with Ian MacRannoch, and he knows. He very likely told you something you've forgotten to mention, and I'm going to find out what it is." He smiled pleasantly, like he'd just told her he was going to bake a cake for her birthday.

She humphed in disbelief. "How many times do I have to tell you I don't know anymore than you do?"

"Apparently a few more." And with that, he once again gave the command to sleep.

====o0I0o====

Killian took his first two steps into the strange land, careful to keep Emma planted firmly in his thoughts, although that wasn't the least bit difficult since she hadn't actually ever left them. He stood in a desert, dunes of varying heights peppering the landscape, a watery sun reflecting off the sand. A brisk wind plastered his hair to his head and blew coarse grains of sand across his face, stinging on impact.

He turned around slowly, mentally cursing the delay of trying to decide which direction to take when everything looked the same for leagues, stopping when he saw a break in the rolling wasteland. Just up ahead was a small fox, sitting delicately on four paws as though calmly waiting for him. He jogged forward and the small animal didn't move, just patently regarded him with a steady stare.

When he reached the spot where it was sitting, it stood up and stretched, then turned around and walked slowly forward, looking back once to make sure Killian was following. When it saw that he was, it quickened its pace.

With no other viable option than the one presented to him, Killian ran after the fox, hoping it was leading him toward his love, praying she wasn't in any serious danger, and that if she was, he'd reach her in time to rescue her from it.

The sand became harder packed as they ran, making for easier going. The exercise invigorated his body if not his mind—each step made him more anxious—but his breath came in a regular rhythm, inhale every three steps, exhale every four. It'd been awhile since he'd gone on a long run, probably not since training in the Navy, but his body remembered and settled into it like he had never stopped.

The fox had carefully maintained several paces between them while they moved, but abruptly stopped in front of some kind of debris, sitting back and lifting one dainty paw to clean its face. Killian trotted to its side, and his heart leapt in his chest, his breath snatched away.

Emma's pack was lying on its side, leather trousers haphazardly sticking out of the top as if someone had been interrupted in the middle of repacking. Gods! Emma! He searched frantically around for any sign of his Swan, half hoping he'd find her and at the same time hoping he didn't because that would mean she was badly injured.

His hasty perusal of the area brought his attention to the hilt of her tiny dagger sticking out of the sand. He picked it up, found the sheath in the front pocket of her pack, and stuck it in his boot, an urgent dread mingling with a serious resolve. He would find her; and woe to the person who had taken her, death to him if even a hair was harmed on her lovely head.

He shouldered her bag quickly and continued after the fox, who had finished cleaning itself and was loping ahead, steadily picking up its pace.

====o0I0o====

Emma's life became a monotony of relentless questioning followed by periods of calm solitude, and she wondered if the entire experience was part of some elaborate plan designed to break her. Her days were interrupted by the maid who brought her meals—who she'd still never fully seen—and the occasional visit from Graham when he could slip away. Today was one such day, and Emma was more than grateful for his company.

"As far as we can tell, no one has ever left this place. The curator knows the location of the entrances and can monitor them, but he's never found the exit, and wants to be the first, so he can control it." Graham sat cross-legged on the floor of her cell while she rested in her cot, willing her body to recover quickly before the next round of questioning.

"Hmm. That makes sense. And I can imagine that if he controls it, any appeal I might have to leave would fall on deaf ears," she said dryly.

"Most likely." He paused a minute, looking up at her with his sad gaze. "How're you holding up in there?"

"Oh, you know, it's the bee's knees."

"Don't hedge the question. You know what I mean."

She didn't know how much she could tell Graham, how much she could trust him if he was really under the control of the curator, so she settled on part of the truth. "It's hard, but I just tolerate it, try not to think about it too much. Believe me, I've been through worse." She smiled, letting him know she was alright.

He moved to his knees, turned back her blanket to pull out her arm, and brushed back her sleeve to reveal the shoelace. "This is my link to the outside world. You've kept me alive, Emma, and you never told me why."

She hoped he was speaking metaphorically, but either way, he deserved to know the truth. She had once been robbed of that chance, and wouldn't miss the opportunity now. Marriage and a close family had taught her to seize these moments, not to be afraid of sharing her heart.

_But what about Jones?_ Her brain slipped the question in quickly before she could stamp it out. She couldn't share her heart with Jones, the timeline was at stake… But that didn't mean he didn't completely occupy her thoughts, along with _her_ Killian, as she tried to puzzle out what was the same about them and what was different.

Graham waited patiently for her answer, completely unaware of the war going on in her head about the man?… men?… no, man she loved.

She sighed heavily, dragging her attention back to the man who had always wanted more from her than she could give. "Because you gave me hope that I could find love again. When I'd lost all hope, you showed me I could feel again," she said softly, more easily than she'd expected.

His eyes bore into hers with an intensity that made her look away, and she watched his neck as his Adam's Apple bobbed. "And did you find love, Emma?"

She moved her eyes back to his and stated quietly but emphatically, "Yes."

A tear came to the corner of his eye and his nose reddened slightly. "Then it was worth it." He backed up and stood, looking down at her with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll try to come again. Maybe you can tell me a little more about what happened in Storybrooke after I…" he struggled a second with the word and then settled on, "left."

She nodded and closed her eyes, relieved that he didn't seem inclined to press her further. She heard the click of the lock and opened her eyes again to stare at the sixty-four tiles on the ceiling, this time counting the cracks in each one, stuffing aside thoughts of the sexy pirate who must have left Mac's by now, hopefully having already taken the potion, ready to rendezvous with the Jolly Roger and continue his life as though they'd never met.

====o0I0o====

They had been going round and round like this for days, hours at a time. The curator would start out fresh and expectant, but by the end of the questioning, strands of his black hair would stick out in every direction even though no fingers had disturbed it. She would stare at his head, waiting for those hairs to rise of their own volition, the telltale sign that he was becoming weary, that he was about to release her back to her cell.

He had tried all kinds of torture. He could make her think almost anything, that her legs were on fire, or that her arms were being ripped out of socket. But she'd always had a high threshold for pain, and so she endured, having finally come to the conclusion that physical pain wasn't nearly as upsetting as mental anguish, and she'd braved so much of that throughout her life that his tortures didn't come close to touching it.

Her only relief came when her body simply lost the ability to obey and she would slip into all-encompassing blackness. But he would rouse her with another bucket of ice water to the face, sometimes more than one—and she'd be back with him, sustaining another round robin of the same questions.

"Again. Why are you here?"

She hung limply on her chains, her wrists chaffed and bleeding now, the thin bandage covering her stitches no match for the heavy metal. Stranger lifted the pipe to his mouth and blew, the sounds filtering through her thoughts like many-legged spiders biting their way around; she didn't think she'd ever get used to the awful sensation.

"I came to get home to my own time." She spoke without inflection, without emotion. It aggravated him more when he couldn't get some kind of rise out of her. At this point, that was all she had, that little hint of irascibility, a tiny victory over the perfectly manicured man unaccustomed to being outdone.

"How do you plan on getting out?" Again the pipe sounds.

"I don't know yet, I'll know when I need to."

He was getting angry hearing the same answers over and over, but she was made of tough stuff and she wouldn't give him what he wanted, no matter how many fits he threw, how many times she had to endure the painful shrieking in her ears, nor how much her body was screaming in agony. She would endure as the doctor suggested, and when he tired of her, she'd plan her escape.

"How many times are we going to do this?" she croaked.

"Until I get the answers I seek." His hair was sticking out all over, floating in a sea of static.

"But I-I've already told you. I'm just trying to get home," she said tiredly.

"Yes. You've said that. Many times." He spread his legs wide. "HOW?!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls in reverberations she thought she could almost see. One of the sound waves hit her in the side of the head like a hard blow, and her head flew sideways, hanging limply as she lost consciousness.

The answer he sought was carefully pinioned behind a bulwark of love this time. A love for Killian, for Jones. A love for him in all of his forms, in all of time. And that wall was impenetrable.

* * *

**So next chapter our two lovebirds are reunited! ;D I know this is a long adventure, and Emma and Jones have ended up apart longer than I intended, but I promise to make the reunion that much sweeter. **

**I'm also trying to improve as a writer-any suggestions on what I could change, or leave out? (I know I'm verbose!) Anyway, still a few curveballs coming your way... Cheers! DD**


	21. Reunited At Last

_Beta-read by lethemoirai, which I finally spelled correctly! Yay!_

_Alright, guys, I'm rather proud of this chapter if I do say so myself. It was really fun to write! Thanks to everyone who takes the time to leave me a review about what you think! Cheers!~DD_

* * *

Chapter 21: Reunited At Last

* * *

Emma lay back in her cot with her hands underneath her head, resting her debilitated body and staring, bored out of her mind. The sixty-four ceiling stones had one thousand, three hundred forty-six cracks in them. The walls had seventy-two stones each, and the cracks in the far wall numbered…

The Piper had been calling her less often now, every two or three days rather than every day, but his choice of tortures was becoming more erratic, more gruesome, and her body struggled to recover in between. Her stitches had been removed the previous day, and to all appearances, she was mostly healed. But every muscle ached as though she had actually endured each dreadful act he'd put through her mind, and she sighed heavily with exhaustion, the kind of exhaustion that made her want to give up hope. She pressed her lips together as she gingerly turned to her side, _what would Henry say?_

So the days in between being tortured were a relief for her body, if not her mind, and she learned to keep her thoughts carefully blank; the less she thought, the easier it was to keep everything safe behind her walls. That was how she had managed all those years before Storybrooke, throughout her childhood, and every other rotten experience of her life. She was quite skilled at _not_ thinking.

But today was different. Today she was struggling to keep her thoughts hidden beneath the meticulously constructed barriers. Today, thoughts of her family, of Jones, of Mac and Isobel, kept whirling around her mind, pinging to the surface like the balls in a lotto machine. Maybe the Piper was losing interest, the newness of his latest obsession wearing off, maybe some part of her recognized a change in the questioning and he was close to letting her go. She could only hope today was that day.

Emma felt a cool humidity brush her cheeks, a bitterness in the air that hadn't been present the day before. She tugged her blanket around her shoulders, wondering briefly if she'd been there long enough to have made it through a season change, if the seasons did in fact change 'in between'. Either that or a storm was brewing.

Her thoughts turned back to Jones without her permission, to the conversation she'd finally had time to fully process, the implications causing her to pause and ask herself if she was right to ask him to drink a potion that would take him down a path of pain and suffering, or if she was only being selfish.

"_Have you ever felt yourself slipping?"_

_She looked over at him oddly, not quite sure where this turn in conversation was headed. "I'm not sure what you mean."_

_He kicked the dirt with the toes of his boots as he walked, shuffling his feet like he was reluctant to continue. "Slipping into the kind of person you swore you would never become." He spoke quietly, and she had to strain to hear him._

_He paused, searching for the right words. "I'm not talking about the rum drinking and card-playing, that's all a façade to maintain the pirate-act. But what kind of man am I becoming? Who will I be in ten years after living a life like this?" He ran a hand through his hair. " If I leave you and return to a life with Milah like you suggest, will I be the kind of person Mrs. Fritz would be proud to call her son?"_

_Emma wasn't sure if his question was rhetorical or not, but he didn't seem to need an answer, and he leaned just a hair closer to her._

"_You make me a better man." He said it so quietly she almost didn't hear him, and then he jogged away to catch up with the children, pointing out a bright red bird he'd spotted in a tree._

_And she realized that what he really wanted to say was that he didn't want to return to Milah, for more reasons than just his growing attachment to Emma; he didn't want to return to Milah because she would take him down the dark path, and he could see it coming. He couldn't be the honorable man he wanted to be if he stayed with her. _

_Emma's heart ached for him as they walked. The road he was destined to travel was difficult and would lead him straight through heartbreak and despair. He would eventually become what he sought, but it would take him more than three hundred years to do so._

Emma's broody thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door scraping open. The same maid placed a tray of food on the floor, keeping her head carefully bent down. It had been several days since Graham's last visit—she hoped he wasn't avoiding her—and she was lonely with nothing but her persistent memories for company. Just as the maid was backing away, Emma spoke.

"Wait, please," Emma said, struggling to a sitting position.

The maid hesitated, still bent over, her curtain of black hair shrouding her face as she seemed to decide whether or not to reveal herself. She abruptly stood up and pushed the hair behind her ear. "What?" she said fiercely.

Two very dark, very belligerent eyes focused on Emma with an intensity that made Emma flinch and stifle a gasp as all the blood rushed out of her head. Oh hell, Milah.

Emma recovered quickly. "I, uh, wanted to thank you for bringing my meals." Did she know who Emma was? They had only seen each other the one time, and it was crowded in the town that day. "I'm—"

"I know exactly who you are," Milah interrupted coldly. She placed a hand on the door, about to leave; Emma had to stop her.

"Wait. You remember? Please, Milah. I just want to get out of here. I need to _leave_," Emma pleaded, hoping to appeal to the other woman's sense of pity. Her head was beginning to pound from sitting up and she pressed her temples, hoping to relieve some of the tension.

"Don't we all," Milah said acerbically, shaking her head. "There's nothing I can do for you, Miss Swan, so if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work." She turned away again, and half-stepped out of the room.

Emma raised her voice a little. "Seriously, I don't know what your problem is, lady, but we're in the same boat here." Emma put as much authority in her tone as she could manage, and Milah stilled, cocking her head slightly with interest, but not bothering to turn around.

"Are we? Seems to me I'm free, _serving_ people," she said it like serving Emma was a lowering of her elevated status or something, "and you're in here, confinedto this cell." She turned around to reveal a triumphant gleam in her eyes that made Emma want to slap her across the face and briefly wonder what Killian had ever seen in the woman besides her beauty.

"Fine. You're right. You obviously have something to say to me. So say it and get out."

Emma wavered on the edge of the cot, fatigue washing over her. She really didn't have the energy to engage in this right now.

That hit a nerve. Milah took two steps forward and slammed the door behind her without taking her eyes off Emma. Her face had turned an ugly shade of red and she drew up to her full height, pushing her chest out a bit and speaking through clenched teeth.

"You're nothing. _I_ was the one who picked up the pieces after you left him. _I_ was the one who made sure he made it to his bed each night when he'd had too much to drink. _I_ was the one who rubbed his head and held him while he cried. Me! You left him, you tramp! Left him a mess, and didn't bother to write or send any kind of message to let him know you were alive. Just disappeared without a trace." Her chest was heaving like a bellows and she was yelling now.

"I loved him! I was ready to give up my life for him when he came back after his _adventure_ with you. But he was broken. You broke him!" She pointed an accusing finger at Emma's chest, having stepped closer in her tirade.

"He d-didn't drink the potion to forget?" Emma asked haltingly, confused as she stared at the wild-eyed woman. He had to have taken the potion if she had met and married him, right?

"Forget?! Oh yes, he forgot. I found that lovely potion in a box on his desk. I asked him what it was when he was in one of his drunken stupors, and I slipped it into his rum the very next night. He woke in the morning with no memory of you, no memory of what we had shared, or how my attentions were bringing him back to life. I had to go back to being merely an acquaintance again." There was a hint of uncertainty in her tone at that last statement, and Emma knew that wasn't the whole truth.

"Didn't matter, though, because he was in my bed soon after that, and he belonged to me from then on." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Emma, contentious as a wild bull.

A pang of jealousy shot through Emma's heart, stinging her worse than anything the piper could begin to imagine. "Then why are you so angry at me?" Emma asked, irritated with Milah's attitude and the fact she was even having this conversation with the irrational woman.

Her voice lowered and she looked away, her fury somewhat diminished from her outburst. "Because _I_ never forgot. I will forever remember him moaning about Emma Swan in his drunken haze. Forever wonder if he ever felt that strongly about me." That was it, the rest of the truth.

"You're jealous then," Emma said, rubbing a hand over her face.

"How can I be jealous of a worm? What you did to him was unconscionable." She dismissed Emma with a wave of her hand, but Emma stopped her with her next words, catching the angry woman already half out the door.

"Then let me tell you something. I have spent so many nights rubbing his hair back from his face when he woke in a nightmare screaming your name, when he's lost in a hell that existed long before I did. He wears a tattoo on his right wrist with your name, written across his heart forever. He'll carry the scars of your relationship always, and I can't do anything about it. You were lucky he had a memory potion to forget. I still have to deal with what he remembers." She looked away to hide the tears that were threatening the backs of her eyes.

"You're lying," Milah said quietly, her tone revealing she sincerely hoped Emma was telling the truth.

"What do I possibly have to gain by lying?" Emma asked with a sigh. This woman was impossible.

"I don't know. Sympathy perhaps?" One dark eyebrow lifted, and she placed a hand on her hip testily.

"That would be nice," Emma answered honestly, "but no. It's the truth."

Milah's expression clouded, and she lost some of her fury. "Then you came back? After Rumple… killed me?"

"Yeah, something like that. He loved you, okay? Really loved you. So you can stop taking your animosity out on me."

Dark eyes locked on light ones with the intensity of an arm wrestling match, each woman taking the measure of the other, and trying to decide what it was Killian Jones had fallen for.

Neither woman moved, and Milah studied Emma's face for what seemed an eternity, but must have read the sincerity there because she nodded once, curtly, not aligning herself with Emma's predicament by any means, but acknowledging the words that made them unlikely sisters, bound by the love of one remarkable man.

She turned and left the cell without another word.

====o0I0o====

Killian Jones topped the crest of the hill, dropping quickly to the ground to avoid being seen. Edging forward on his belly, body hidden in the tall grass, he saw a large compound with several people bustling about, obviously working some type of large farm. There were groomsmen training horses, maids boiling laundry with sweat dripping from their brows, gardeners tending a very large field of all types of vegetables and grains. Cauldrons filled with several different dyes steamed in one section while their workers removed colorful garments in shades of red, purple and the most brilliant yellow Killian had ever seen, to hang them to dry on several rows of line. No one really talked, oddly enough, just seemed very intent on whatever task he or she was completing. There were guards posted in pairs over each activity, silently observing their charges.

Emma was here. He could feel it as surely as he could feel his thighs burning from running the better part of a day. His heart began to pick up speed as he perused the layout of the compound. He needed a plan.

The fox had disappeared as soon as the terrain changed from hard-packed desert to grassland. And so Killian had continued on the same heading, every step pulling him closer to the woman he loved. It was as if his heart had a tiny lighthouse fire burning for her, and the closer he drew to her, the brighter the flame would get. And now he was here.

He didn't find her among the workers, so he turned his attention to another cluster of buildings, all but deserted. A normal reconnaissance mission would take anywhere from several hours to a couple of days, and he always took Jamison on such errands for his uncanny ability to pick out details most overlooked. But Killian didn't have several hours. Swan had been gone for most of the day, and there was no telling how long it had been since she'd been forcefully separated from her belongings.

He noticed a pair of guards standing near the entrance of one of the buildings, and inched closer to get a better look, startling when a cacophonous piping sound echoed through the lowland. Killian clamped his hands to his ears as the tune crackled through his mind and a voice announced supper. Everyone immediately stopped what they were doing and walked toward one large square building, like ants drawn to a sweetmeat. _What the hell?_

The only people who didn't move were the guards by the abandoned buildings. There. She had to be there. He pulled his scope from his pack and trained his eye on the guards. They were standing on either side of a door fashioned from what had to be glass and positioned in the very center front of the building. He looked more closely, never having seen such a thing; glass was generally reserved for windows and small openings, not being strong enough to cover such a large area.

The guards were twin brothers dressed in matching breeches and homespun shirts, each holding a long-armed mace with a spiked, evil looking head that would easily crush a skull with a simple swing of the hand. They wore blank expressions on their faces, staring forward at the bare courtyard before them. Killian couldn't imagine a duller occupation if he tried.

Concentrating on the building itself, he saw that the roof was flat, had no other obvious doors, and tiny windows with bars over them occasionally broke the stone expanse, indicating a prison of some sort. What he wouldn't give for a grappling hook.

He felt something brush his ankle, and disregarded it, thinking it was a field mouse or some other small animal. The light was just beginning to fade, which was the next best thing to the cover of a moonless night; dusk was a difficult time for anyone to see. Perhaps he could sneak up on the guards unaware.

Backing away from his lookout point, he secured Emma's cutlass to the other side of his waist, opposite his own sword, pausing when he caught a glint of light reflecting off metal.

"I'll be damned!" he exclaimed. A grappling hook sat at his feet, attached to several lengths of a neatly coiled, sturdy line. He tossed it over his shoulder with a quick thanks to the gods who must be watching over him, and made his way back down the hill, intending to circle around the quiet compound and give the guards the least amount of warning of his presence.

====o0I0o====

Killian silently bent over the edge of the roof, judging the distance between himself and the heads of the guards with practiced ease. Cutting the line to the appropriate length, he secured the grappling hook into one of the stones at his feet and slipped over the edge.

All those years of climbing rigging had served him well. It took quite a bit of strength, but he moved down the rope like a monkey looking for something to eat, keeping his movements small and slow to avoid alerting the guards.

His boot slipped suddenly on one of the stones and made a quiet whooshing sound. Killian quickly looked down into the curious face of one of the guards. There was no time to think. Releasing the rope, he dropped like a dead weight on top of the man, his fall broken by the man's shoulder. They buckled to the ground in a heap, but Killian recovered first, gaining his feet just as the other guard swung his mace straight for Killian's head.

Ducking, the mace glanced across his left arm instead, dealing a hard blow that felt nearly strong enough to crack bone, the sharp spikes tearing through his skin. Killian fumbled backward and pulled his sword, holding his injured arm against his waist.

The two guards bore down on him with steely eyes, and Killian had a moment of regret for the amount of time this might take. The men were big and obviously took their job very seriously. But he had to get to Swan. He was so close now.

The first man swung for his waist, while the second geared up to swing lower down. Killian read their intentions across their faces like he was reading a map. They didn't want to kill him, only incapacitate him. Good then, he'd use that to his advantage. Ducking and rolling sideways to keep from impaling himself on the cutlass, he stabbed the second man in the side. With a deep grunt—the first sound either one of them had made—he fell to his knees, cradling the wound. The first man redirected his aim and crashed the head of the mace down on Killian's sword with a loud ping, knocking the weapon from his hand.

Before the first man could recover from the jolt up his arm, Killian drew the cutlass and swiped for anything on the left side of his body. The man stepped back, nearly grinning in the waning light.

Suddenly Killian felt his feet go out from under him. The injured man had brought him to his backside using the handle of his mace, wrapping it around his legs before collapsing to the ground. Killian looked up to see the first man's mace bearing down on his chest with a ferocity that would frighten the stoutest heart. Rolling to the left, the mace struck the ground with a heavy thud, and Killian felt the vibration from the ground go through his body. His earlier thought that they only wanted to stop him was quickly amended with the thought that that stroke could have killed.

Fixing Emma in his mind with renewed determination—he couldn't die here, for the gods' sakes—he jumped to his feet and jabbed his sword in his attacker's thigh. The man faltered for only a moment, swinging the mace high overhead.

Using his injured arm as a shield, Killian caught the man's arm on its downward descent and plunged the cutlass toward his belly. The angle of his weapon was wrong, and the metal bounced off the man's ribs, succeeding in only nicking his skin. The force of the crushing blow sent Killian to the ground and he scooted to the right to avoid the head of the mace. They were so close together, the handle landed on his shoulder instead, with enough force to leave a very painful bruise.

Once more on the ground and at a marked disadvantage, Killian did the only thing he could in such a situation. He surrendered.

"Wait, wait. I capitulate. I offer the proverbial white flag." He tossed his cutlass aside as the guard reared up for another vigorous swing of the mace, and a cold finger of fear brushed Killian's face along with the thought that maybe he'd been hasty to drop his weapon.

The guard stopped, panting heavily as he let the mace drop to his side, and he stood up straight, regarding Killian with a gimlet eye. Killian put his palms out in a show of abdication, sitting with his knees up in the cropped grass of the courtyard, only a couple of feet separating them.

"The curator will be pleased with your decision," the man said with a cultured voice that surprised Killian. The man turned around to detach a pair of manacles from the back of his belt.

Using the guard's diverted attention to his advantage, Killian grabbed Emma's dagger from his boot in a motion so quick the man never saw it coming. He bolted forward and stabbed the man first in the groin, and when he flinched from the impact, Killian knelt up and stabbed him in the neck. His pupils rolled back, leaving the whites of his eyes staring blankly like the ghost he was about to become. Killian removed the dagger and warm blood gushed over his hand, enough to soak the lower half of his sleeve, and the man dropped dead.

Killian sat down heavily, catching his breath and thanking the gods for all his years of training in close combat. He wiped his hand on the grass and used the edge of his shirt to clean the dagger before re-sheathing it, resisting the urge to kiss the thing; it really was a handy little blade.

He dragged the dead guards' bodies around the far side of the building to make it look as though they had only left their post in case anyone came up. Night was coming on, so it was likely the blood spatters in the grass would go unnoticed.

Retrieving his and Emma's packs, he pulled open the glass door and trotted through the building, wrinkling his nose at the scent of old blood, and trying not to think about what that might mean for Emma. There were several corridors, and he stopped, trying to decide which one to take. The last thing he wanted was to waste time wandering the large building.

The beacon in his chest burned very brightly now that he spared it attention. And he noticed that it flared when he turned to the right. He trotted off in the direction of the radiant blaze, mind's eye seeing the golden head of his Swan tossing to and fro in the wind, laughter curled in her lips, calling him to her as surely as a lighthouse calls its ships to safety.

====o0I0o====

Emma paced her cell, stretching her muscles, swinging her arms, trying to regain her ease of motion now that she was mostly healed. The curator still hadn't called for her, and Emma had had another day to herself—a day to reminisce, to dream, to recover. A day to wonder if her entire life had been an illusion and the present moment was reality, perhaps always had been. Graham still hadn't shown his face again since their last conversation, and it wasn't yet time for Milah to bring her supper.

She crouched into a squat, holding it for twenty seconds before having to release it, her thighs quivering, but she did it again, trying to hold it longer, distracting herself with thoughts of the other woman. What would Milah say to her tonight? Would she help her? Or would she just ignore Emma like she had the last several weeks? Milah owed her nothing, Emma knew that well, and she could only imagine how upset she would be if she were asked to help the woman who had consumed her husband's heart so completely as to have him forget all else. Of course, she would help Milah if the situation were reversed, for the sake of Killian's love for her, but not without a certain amount of resentment. And Milah's confession made Emma ache for Jones. Not only would he endure the pain of losing Milah, but apparently he had endured the pain of losing Emma as well, even if he didn't remember it.

What if she'd been hasty? What if she should have let Jones travel with her longer? But no, their connection only grew the longer they stayed together. And if his leaving her at this point in the journey was enough to drive him into rum-induced despair, then spending even more time with him would be worse, wouldn't it? That didn't mean she didn't ache for his company or imagine his strong arms holding her against the next wave of torture. Sometimes it was all she could do to remove the feel of him against her body lest she truly lose herself to utter hopelessness.

As though her thoughts had conjured him out of thin air, a very familiar voice shouted through the grate in the door.

"Swan!"

She was bent over, feeling a burn in the backs of her thighs as she stretched, and looked up at the door through her spread legs. Her husband's face stared down at her, upside down and anxious.

"Killian?!"

A strange look passed over his face and she could almost hear his thoughts. _Do you know who I am? Who came back for you?_

She hastily unfolded herself and crossed over to the door. His fingers gripped the bars of the grate and she tentatively placed her hands on top of his, almost surprised to see he was real. "Jones!" she amended, "What are you doing here?" She couldn't keep the smile off her face as relief flooded her.

"Enjoying the view, you blasted woman," he said frantically. "Now unlock the door." His knuckles were white and he glanced over his shoulder to check behind him in both directions.

"Really?" she said with a deadpanned voice, somewhat annoyed. "Don't you think I already would have if I could?" What did he think she was doing? Staying imprisoned on purpose? Every time she reached out her consciousness to use magic, she would bump into an eerie music playing throughout the ether of the compound. She imagined that was what Graham had been referring to when he'd said, 'I can hear him in my head.' When her mind touched the music, it slowly grew louder and harsher as though it were a speaker tuning in her direction, seeking her out so it could blare directly in her soul. She recoiled every time, afraid if the Piper knew what she was capable of, he'd quit the torture and just outright kill her, so she'd been biding her time, waiting for an opportunity to escape to present itself.

"Right. Then let me just see if I can…" He took his hands away from hers, and she heard him fishing around in his pockets. A thick panic gripped her throat.

"Jones!" she choked.

"What? What is it?" He came back up and peered at her in alarm. He was here. Really here, and her eyes began to leak tears as she looked at him with a stupid grin.

His blue eyes softened, and she could see he had been beside himself with worry for her. "I'll get you out of here, love. Just hold on a minute." He reached through the bars and touched her cheek before pulling away again to hunt through his pack this time.

"No, wait. There's a maid that comes to bring my food. She should be here any minute with a key." She could barely see the top of his head as he rifled through the pack, but he stopped and smiled up at her, impressed.

"Good thinking. I'll just pop around the corner for a minute then." He turned his head, looking for a place to hide.

"Jones, the maid, she's… she's…" How was she supposed to explain he was about to see Milah?

His eyes were bright with relief, and for all he was distracted with the task at hand, he stared at her intently, and she could tell he was barely listening, taking unmitigated comfort in knowing she was close at hand.

Emma heard the sound of the door at the end of the corridor, and he broke her gaze to duck aside quickly, though not quick enough, as the sound of a crashing tray echoed through the hallway, a bowl or cup spinning around and around emphasizing the palpable shock.

Emma pressed her face to the bars of the door, but only succeeded in catching a blur as Milah's body hurtled down the hallway at top speed, landing into Jones with a soft thump. And then Emma heard the sound of kissing.

Turning her head in disgust, she moved back from the door and sat on the edge of her cot, weak-kneed, this time from the torture of imagining her love in the arms of the other woman.

.

.

"You came back for me." Milah's words were muffled as she spoke between feverish kisses she planted all over his face.

"Uh, Milah, lass, what are you doing here?" When had Milah had a chance to come here? Last he'd seen her was in the town square when they'd purchased Emma's leather clothing. Had she followed him here? Gods above!

He took her by both arms and held her away from his body.

She stopped and her eyes widened, filling with horror. "You're not here for me. You're here for her. You arse! I've lived every day stuck in a nightmare of memories trying to get back to you. And you're here for her!" She pulled back her hand to slap him, but he caught it before she could.

Milah had always had a temper, and even though he'd never seen the full brunt of it, he did now, and she looked like she was about to burst in a million pieces and cut him to shreds when she did. A part of him wished she would do it and get out of the way quickly so he could get to Swan; he'd already lived through shredded skin and could do it again.

"So are you going to help us, or are you going to brood about it?" he asked impatiently. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were still trying to decide what you wanted out of life, and hadn't decided if I was enough for you." He couldn't resist the dig; it had annoyed him to no end that she expected more from him than she herself was willing to give.

"What?! I already made that decision, years ago! Are you telling me you don't remember?" Her voice was gaining volume as she tapped into her full fury. "Do I have to endure this all over again? I WON'T! Do you hear me?!" She shoved him desperately. "I HATE YOU! I hate that you've driven me to this again and again. I hate that I've always had to compete with her." She threw her hand in the direction of Emma's cell. "Screw the two of you and leave me out of it!"

She turned on her heel and stalked away, and Killian was grateful for her retreat, sighing when she slammed the door behind her.

He hurried back to the cell door, looking through the grate to see Emma sitting on the edge of her cot with her beautiful head in her hands. "How are you going to get me out now? She had the key." Emma's voice floated through the cell desolately, so unlike his Swan that his heart was breaking. What had happened to her?

"Then I guess it's a good thing I lifted it from her pocket," he said with a smirk, fitting the key to the lock, arms aching to hold his Swan.

* * *

**So they're close to being done with the Pied Piper, thank goodness. Thanks to everyone who's left positive feedback about the story pace-it's a long one for sure. And the adventures aren't over yet, Muahahahah!**

A/N Ok, a couple of people have asked about Milah and how she got there, or how she knows anything. If you remember in Chapter 7 (Answers), Milah grabs Jones away from shopping with Emma and is rather jealous of his relationship with our favorite blonde. But she tells him she will wait for him to get back from his adventure with Emma. Little does she know that Jones is well on his way to falling for Emma at that point in the story.

Time doesn't run in a linear fashion 'in between'. We learn from Graham that anyone who's ever had their heart crushed is called by the Pied Piper and essentially becomes one of the Piper's minions, so the people in his compound have no hearts and are controlled by the tunes he plays on his pipe. That would include Milah since she's had her heart crushed by Rumple. Now, her heart was crushed in Emma's past, not Jones's-Jones hasn't lived through that yet. But it doesn't matter because I don't have to keep time constant. Jones is meeting a future version of Milah in the cell-block hallway. Emma is meeting a past version of Milah as the maid who brings her meals.

Milah remembers that first meeting with Emma in the town, and when Jones returned from his adventure with Emma, Milah must have ministered to him, since he apparently didn't drink the potion right away. But she was scorned twice-1) when he came back from the adventure and wanted nothing to do with Milah because he was in love with Emma 2) when he forgets about Emma (after Milah slipped him the potion) and he forgets what Milah had become to him in the time he was mooning over Emma. Essentially she goes back to being what she was to him when they were dating-someone he's interested in, but not all that sure about. And if the forgetting potion works the same as it does in OUAT, then Jones would drink the potion and lose his love, meaning his relationship with Milah would have been dark to begin with.

Does that make better sense?

If it continues to be confusing, let me know and I'll see if I can clarify or add something to the information as it unfolds in the story.


	22. A Complicated Flight

_Beta-read by the awesome lethemoirai, whose fan-girling is refreshing and funny, especially after hours of looking at the same passage._

_Thanks to all you guys who leave a review-your comments are extremely encouraging, especially after hours of looking at the same passage. :P Cheers!~DD_

* * *

Chapter 22: A Complicated Flight

* * *

Each click of the tumblers as the key turned in the lock echoed through her stone cell like the final strikes of a clock counting down, when each strike seems minutes from the next but only moments actually pass. Emma had listened to the exchange between Milah and Jones with half an ear, trying not to intrude out of respect for Killian and his memory of the desperate love affair, a love Emma would never understand now. Milah was a train-wreck, and if Emma truly loved Jones, wouldn't she do everything in her power to protect him from it? Timeline be damned?

The stone that had plunged into her stomach at the sound of Milah _greeting_ Jones quite suddenly lodged itself somewhere in her esophagus. The answer to that question eluded her, seeing as it would not only affect her life, but the lives of countless others, and that wasn't a responsibility she thought she could take on now, maybe ever.

Jones, the man who'd surprised her with his light-hearted ease and searing intensity, a paradox of emotional depth that was hard to resist, was there, crossing to her cot in two long strides, hastily gathering her in his arms. She had pictured this moment more times than she could count, only not with Jones, but with Killian once she'd returned home. She had never expected to see Jones again, but he was here, real, and he had come for her. She sank into him, clutching his jacket collar in her hands and pressing her face to his neck.

"Swan," he said thickly, barely tightening his hold. He took a deep breath in tandem with hers, as if they could fuse into one being, each carrying the other. A ripple of energy pulsed through her, strengthening her limbs with a vigor she hadn't felt in weeks. _True love_.

Planting a chaste kiss to her hair, he clasped her wrist, pulling her toward the cell door. She grunted in pain, and he stopped, turning back toward her with a question in his eyes.

Gently peeling his fingers back from her wrist revealed the raw and battered skin that had broken open in his haste. His eyes widened in surprise and he pulled back a little, taking in her appearance with a furrowed brow, letting his eyes sweep her from head to toe. She was barefoot, still wearing the linen pants from the fairies that were indescribably filthy, and the loose button-down man's shirt the doctor had given her. His perusal was cursory, but made her feel self-conscious nonetheless.

"Um, a bath wasn't exactly in the lineup of services here," she said uncomfortably, smoothing her hair back from her face. It had been weeks since she'd last seen him, but he looked just the same, dressed in his leather, only he had her cutlass as well as his sword strapped to his waist.

Unusually silent, he lifted a hand to her chin and turned her face from side to side, studying what must be mostly-healed scrapes, maybe some faded bruising from the Curator's unorthodox methods. His eyes hardened as he beheld the wounds, then the icy blue landed on her own. "Who did this to you?"

She shook her head, brushing his hand aside. "Doesn't matter. Just get me out of here."

He didn't move, and she caught a glimpse of the hard pirate captain who could make men buckle at the knees. "I said, 'Who did this to you?'" he repeated sharply. He wasn't budging until she answered.

"His name is Nicholas Stranger," she said with a sigh. Jones's expression didn't change, but his eyes indicated that he was memorizing the name, and she knew if Jones's path crossed with the Piper's, he would kill him or be killed. He nodded in hard satisfaction and took her hand instead, leading her to the door. He bent over to retrieve their packs, looked both ways, and pulled her in the opposite direction of where Milah had exited.

"Tell me what we're dealing with. I've only encountered one pair of guards, but we need to be prepared in case Milah alerted anyone to my presence. And where are your boots?" he added as an afterthought. He was all business now, setting aside emotion and comfort in lieu of their escape. Whether he acted out of efficiency or out of some innate instinct about her needs, she was grateful; it gave her time to get used to being with him again—if it weren't for the burning of her skin where he'd reopened the wound, she might have thought the last several minutes were a dream.

"Do you honestly think she'd do that?" Emma asked in disbelief. She would never dream of ratting out someone she loved, even if he had rejected her.

Jones gave her a look that said he very much believed the other woman was more than capable of such vindictiveness. Emma shook her head; no wonder he was reluctant to return to her.

The stink of old blood increased once they left the area with the cells, and Emma could only guess they were in the main part of the building that led to the room of shackles where the stench seemed most concentrated. The long and sinuous halls were unfamiliar to her, broken only by cross-halls and deep doorways. She'd never been awake when they transported her from quiet solitude to mind-numbing torture, and so she had to rely on Jones to maneuver their way out of the building.

A stray wire from a broken ceiling light brushed across her face with a spectral touch as they passed underneath, and she couldn't suppress a shiver.

"Right. The guards are always in pairs, copies of each other. Everyone here is controlled to some degree by Stranger. He plays some kind of magical pipe and forces his will on his listeners." The tile floor became warm and a little sticky under her feet as the humidity steadily increased, the air cloying to her skin and sticking in her throat. "And I don't know where my boots are," she added grumpily.

Jones glanced at her briefly, and she could see him make a mental note of acquiring shoes for her at some point in this mad escape. A single tear pricked the back of her eye at his thoughtfulness, but she blinked it away before it could call forth anymore accumulated emotion she was presently, but nominally, keeping at bay.

His head darted to and fro when they came to the cross-hall, checking for any guards, although the only sounds she heard were those of their own footsteps.

"I beat him, though," she said softly, talking about Stranger. Jones smiled, and she felt a surge of pride go through her; he had expected nothing less.

"What are you doing here?" she asked curiously. "You're supposed to be back on the Jolly with no memory of any of this."

Nearly faltering in his stride, he whipped his head around, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times before he found his voice. "Bloody hell, Swan! You say this to me now? In the middle of my dashing rescue?"

"I h-had everything under control," she said unconvincingly and slightly winded as he continued tugging her along.

A bulb flickered above their heads in an eerie staccato rhythm, and he glanced upward and frowned at the fluorescent lights, but didn't say anything, taking it all in stride, even though she knew electricity must resemble magic to him.

He twisted his lips to the side and quirked a brow. "Yes, I can see that you did. And exactly how long were you planning to stay in your balmy quarters? Hmmm? And why do you look like you've lost nearly a stone?"

He stopped abruptly and pressed her into one of the doorways, covering her with his body and tilting his head toward the sound of booted feet marching rhythmically through the nearest corridor.

"Well if we're asking questions, where have you been for the last several weeks?" she muttered into his chest, the soft hair tickling her lips. The length of his body held her securely against the door. The metal was cool behind her now-wet shirt and the knob dug painfully into her side, but she didn't care, and she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. It was the first time in weeks she felt physically safe, knowing Jones would do everything in his power to protect her, and he wouldn't leave her now, no matter that she had left him, no matter what they came up against.

"With you, you ungrateful wench. What do you mean where have I been? You left early this morning, and I was only a couple of hours behind you!" he whispered testily.

"A couple of hours? I've been here for we-eeks." Her voice cracked and she hesitated, just shy of telling him about the torture, feeling the full brunt of his attention as he leaned closer.

"Weeks?!" he hissed, suddenly angry. "What's been going on here?" He loomed over her as though he could intimidate the answer out of her.

She closed her eyes to break his hard glare, and forced herself to speak calmly. "Later. We have to get out of here as soon as possible, before _he_ finds out."

He didn't move right away, just studied her with his piercing blue gaze, as though nothing was escaping his notice. "Indeed." He lifted a hand to her chin and tilted her head up very slightly. "I do intend to discuss this later, Swan."

She barely nodded, but didn't move otherwise, feeling his heat, watching his pulse jump in his neck. She lifted a hand and fingered a pocket on his jacket, unable to stop from touching him, wishing they could stay hidden in this corner indefinitely, breathing the same air.

An odd expression passed over his face, as if he only just realized they were so close, and he stepped back, about to move out into the hallway now that the guards had passed, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I'm really glad you're here, Killian," she said almost too quietly.

He turned his head toward her with a look of soft surprise. Holding her eyes, he reached up to move a lock of hair over her shoulder, his voice husky. "Swan, is that a thank you? Been so long, I almost didn't recognize it." He smiled and his gaze fell on her lips, but he held back; he wasn't pushing himself on her now.

Grasping her hand again, he took the lead through the maze-like corridors, following some unaccounted-for sixth sense. She trailed behind him, eager to be free of the Pied Piper.

====o0I0o====

They should have been out by now. Killian had always been able to rely on his impeccable sense of direction, and had memorized the number of turns to get to Emma, and therefore back out again, but something was different, as if the halls themselves had changed position and were leading them ever deeper into an inexplicable maze.

Nicholas Stranger. The name tasted peculiar on his tongue. After he assured himself of Emma's safety, he intended to find the man and eliminate him quickly.

The endless corridors continued to twist and turn, and his stomach knotted in fear that they were being led into a trap, with Mr. Stranger at the center of a vast charade. His only hope was that Emma would be able to hold out. He glanced back at her, conscious of her laboring breath, and slowed a bit, finally admitting to himself they were lost.

A loud shout startled them both, and her eyes widened. "Run!" he exclaimed, pulling her behind him. He paused at the end of the corridor, and as the shouts increased, he turned again and pulled open a wide glass door, entering the chamber beyond.

He stopped abruptly and Emma stumbled into him.

"Jones!" she shouted, scrabbling backward and taking him with her. He whirled around, trying to comprehend where he was. Shackles, dark blood stains, and hard stone all screamed torture chamber at him, and judging by Emma's reaction, the place where she had obtained her injuries.

She had succeeded in pulling him to the nearest wall, eyes wild as they swept the chamber, the exit nowhere in sight. They had definitely been led to this place, and they were trapped.

Catching sight of something over his shoulder, her face went very white, knees buckling as she slowly sank to the floor.

Sparing a glance to his right, he quickly drew his sword and wrapped a strong arm around Emma's waist, hauling her up against his side. "Stay with me, love," he said, keeping an eye on the colorful man with black eyes boring into them, standing on his tip-toes. Killian had never seen anyone so bizarre-looking, and would bet gold coins he was staring at Nicholas Stranger. His grip tightened on his sword.

"Let me guess, you came through the waterfall for our Mrs. Jones," Stranger said, fiddling with a small pipe between his long fingers. _Yes,_ Stranger's expression said, _I did orchestrate this very event, quite to my liking._

_Mrs. Jones_. Killian started at the name, and Emma completely stilled under his arm. It was the first time he'd ever heard her surname, _his surname_, used in conjunction with her. It felt right to have her named as his wife, even by this fiend, and he was filled with peace, as if she'd always been so, as if he wasn't separated from that life by three hundred years. A fierce protectiveness rose up, and he squeezed her against his body, keeping his sword outstretched, even as his racing heart began to pump more slowly and his attention honed in on the source of danger.

Stranger pressed his fingers together in a tall triangle under his chin, continuing to study them with the confidence that comes with knowing he had the control. "Tell me who you are and what you intend to accomplish here, being at such a disadvantage," he said, wide lips pursing.

Killian kept his face carefully blank. "I'm _Mr_. Jones, come to claim my wife."

The words held just the amount of possession Killian intended and Swan stood up straighter, jaw set, ready to face her fear of the mad man. She was angry now, and anger would serve her well.

"Is she all you've come for? Seems to me there's another here who has a claim on your heart," he chuckled cynically.

"If she wishes to leave with us, I'll take her too." For as messy as the situation with Milah would be, he knew he spoke the truth, and would indeed rescue her as well, unable to leave anyone to the mercy of this man.

Stranger bent his head down and pursed his lips. "How very interesting. To find yourself the object of two women's desires? Many men could only be so lucky."

Killian could clearly see what the Piper was doing; stalling for time, trying to find his weakness so he'd know where to strike, like an adder going straight for the throat. He'd dealt with men like him before, men who will do anything to maintain the guise of control, even to their own detriment.

Emma stayed silent throughout this exchange, and Killian half-turned toward her, hoping to catch what she was thinking on her lovely face. And then he felt it. Magic. From the top of his head and from the bottom of his feet, unceasing devotion pulled through his body and collected in his heart, swirled a couple of times, and flowed out of his hand into hers. Love bloomed around them, and he looked down at her, full of tenderness and passion for the woman beside him. He'd go to the end of time for her. She smiled back, her own feelings plain, and he saw how much he meant to her. Him. Jones.

She had built a wall. A wall of true love. He knew as soon as it was completed because the thick, fetid air somehow felt a little cooler and the strange buzzing he'd heard from the moment he set foot in this strange land was gone, blocked. Every muscle in his body relaxed like a sigh and his mind felt lighter, quicker, and even though he'd been ready for a fight when he'd entered the place, he now knew they would be successful. That nothing could penetrate their love.

"Speaking from experience, then, are you?" Killian provoked, fearless.

The man's anger flared, and he put his pipe to his lips. "You'll oblige me by dropping your sword." He blew a quick succession of notes.

Emma didn't move, and Killian only cocked a brow back at the man, challenging him.

"I said, drop your sword." Stranger repeated, his voice indicating his displeasure.

Stranger's wide mouth gaped in surprise when he saw that his piping had no effect, but he quickly hid it behind a mask of indifference, a few hairs rising from his slick black head like snakes under the spell of a snake-charmer. Killian didn't bother to hide his grin.

"People with hearts are such a bother, even more tedious than those with a link to the outside world. So since I see this is going nowhere, what say you we make a wager?"

"What kind of wager?" Emma spit out, finally speaking and furious. The urge to kiss her thundered in his blood; she was such a bloody marvel. Most women would have been completely undone by the events, but not her, not Swan.

"A gentleman's wager. You help me and I'll help you. It's as simple as that," he said conversationally.

"A gentleman's wager is generally struck between men of honor. What assurance do we have that you'll hold to such a bargain?" Killian asked doubtfully.

"Well," he chuckled, "Nothing really. And I must say that I have the advantage here, and you have little to lose." Stranger began walking back and forth on his toes.

"Tell me what you propose and we'll decide," Killian replied.

Stranger stopped, his flickering eyes stilling as they watched Emma. "You tell me how you bested me, and I'll answer your question." He bent one knee, extended his foot behind him, and balanced as he awaited her answer.

Her eyes narrowed. "What question?"

"The one you asked several times while you were, let's say, perhaps not quite as coherent as you might have liked… 'Can Graham leave?'" Gooseflesh rippled across Killian's entire body. The voice that issued from the man's mouth was Emma's—an exhausted, thick tongued version—but Emma's nonetheless.

And who was Graham? Did she know someone other than Milah in this forgotten place? Killian's devotion wavered with a question, and he felt the wall begin to ripple in front of them. Ripple with doubt. She tugged his arm slightly. When he looked down at her, her expression clearly said, _Have faith in me. In us. You can doubt tomorrow, but not today._

He nodded once, hard, and replaced the doubt with the thought of standing firm by the side of his wife, seeing her safe, and killing the man who dared to lay a hand on her.

"Deal," she said softly.

"Excellent! Please, Mr. Jones, you can rest your arm." Stranger wiggled his pipe theatrically and placed it in his pocket as a show of faith. Killian slowly lowered his sword to his side, forcing back the desire to sigh as his shoulder muscle eased and the burning subsided.

"Well then, the answer is yes, your friends can leave this realm, but I'd have to agree to release them, and I'm not certain I want to do that yet. I must be convinced of your not being a threat."

"Fair enough," Emma conceded. "Where would they go once they left here?"

"Ah, but that's two questions, and I only agreed to one. So then, how have you bested me?" Stranger leaned forward at the waist, feet braced wide apart, as if the few inches he gained helped him hear better.

"With love." Emma's words echoed strong and sure in the cavernous room, and Killian tightened his hand on her.

"What?!" he shouted.

She briefly flinched at his tone, but recovered quickly. "Love. Your pipe can't penetrate love, that's why you can only control those with no hearts." If there was ever a doubt in Killian's mind about her feelings for him, it was extinguished as the truth of her words sank into his head and his heart.

As if on cue, several more strands of black hair rose around Stranger's head to accompany his nasty snarl. "GUARDS!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, a high-pitched shriek that echoed off the walls and would have been more at home out of a woman's mouth.

"Give me the cutlass. I can fight," Emma said, turning her face up to his.

"Are you sure you're well enough?" She looked a mess, but her eyes were determined, and he knew there would be no arguing with her.

"I have to be. Now!"

A conversation about marriage with Jamison—the optimistic matchmaker—floated before Killian's eyes as he took in the unyielding set of her shoulders. _Ye want to choose someone ye'd want by yer side in a fight_, Jamison had said. If that was the criterion for a successful marriage, then he fully understood why he'd chosen to marry her, if there was ever a question.

He presented her with the hilt of the tiny dagger and her cutlass, which she took, one in each hand. Lifting his hand to her cheek, he spoke with unwavering resolve. "We're not dying here today."

Her green eyes brightened, impatient for the fight. "Good," she said soberly, and turned to meet the first of the guard pairs.

====o0I0o====

They fought together as they always had, as a team. Jones was at her back and next to her side every time she needed him, as if following some kind of intuition about where he'd be most effective as a fighting partner. He was an extension of her arms, an extension of her consciousness, and the line between him and her husband further blurred, although she couldn't give that thought the attention it deserved.

The guards came at them in streams, fighting with all manner of weapons, from spears to swords, from clubs to maces. She and Jones were careful to remain near the wall, to prevent being surrounded, so only four men at a time could effectively attack. She slashed through upraised arms, ducked low to swipe against knees, dashed sideways to stab backs and bellies, her bare feet offering a nimbleness she wouldn't have in boots. And whereas she would have loved to unleash a few fireballs—Regina style—using the faulty wiring from the fluorescent lights as a catalyst, she couldn't hold the wall at the same time, and that seemed most important.

The men began to pile up, most of them only injured, but badly enough to render them incapable of continuing to fight. Jones was faring just as well she noticed, as he jumped over a fallen man to drive his sword through the side of another.

The Piper had already left the room, a look on his face clearly indicating he didn't expect them to win, and he was fine if they ended up dead, or not.

Jones was just finishing off the last guard, Emma catching her breath when she caught a movement to her left. Ducking instinctively, a knife whizzed past her ear. She looked up to see Graham bearing down on her with a short sword in his hand. His eyes were hard and angry. No, not Graham.

Copy-Graham swung for her head with one hand, his other going for the sheathed knives at his belt. She ducked hard and aimed her cutlass at his lowered hand. The blade slipped between his arm and body, missing its mark, so she pulled it to the right, angling it so that it hissed through the skin in his wrist, leaving a deep cut. He merely grunted.

A whoosh of air blew behind her, lifting the hair at her neck. She barely spared a glance; copy-Graham had recovered and was jumping over a fallen guard to attack her from the opposite side of Jones. She swiped her dagger at his neck, barely missing as he went for another knife at his belt.

"No!"

Graham's voice was loud and clear behind her, and she whirled around, just as Jones drove his sword into the heart of copy-Graham. Graham's hand was upraised, a throwing knife just about to let loose.

She paused, about to let her cutlass fall to her side.

"Swan, no!" Jones shouted.

And then her own arm was moving forward with a jerk, her cutlass plunging into Graham's belly. Jones had grabbed her hand and forced the weapon forward. Graham grunted and his body bucked slightly, his eyes going very wide.

He slithered off the end of her blade, and she stared down at the bloodied metal in complete disbelief. No, no, no, this did not just happen. "Graham!"

Jones looked back and forth between the injured Graham and herself, shock crossing his features as it registered what he'd done.

"Swan, I didn't know. I thought… I thought… he was aiming for you," he fumbled.

Graham shook his head. "No, for him." he gestured weakly toward his fallen copy.

She moved down to help him up, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"No, don't bother. I'm not going anywhere." His wound was bleeding freely and he placed a hand over it, trying to stanch the flow. He managed a bland smile. "It's okay, death is preferable to-to… this." He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute as a spasm passed through him.

"But you were stuck here because of me. Because of the shoelace." She swiped at her eyes just then realizing she was crying.

"No, I was s-stuck here because… of him. Our _link_ made it a little easier to bear. I could remember…" He trailed off, struggling with the words, and Jones stiffened; she knew she'd be explaining later.

"I'm so sorry," she said quietly, the tears falling freely now and soaking the front of his shirt.

"Don't be. We get to say goodbye, which is more than we had the first time." His gray eyes beheld hers with something that looked suspiciously like love, and she gripped his hand fiercely, grief for what could have been ripping through her body, reminding her of the first time he'd died in her arms.

Graham used his free hand to reach up and caress her cheek, and she was surprised at how cold it was. "Emma, let me go."

"Graham, I won't. You can come with—"

"No. My fate was sealed the day Regina crushed my heart. But you, you, have a chance." His eyes moved to Jones, studying her pirate as if asking, _Are you worthy of her?_

Emma lifted her eyes to Jones, catching his answer, _I pledge my life to protect her_.

Graham nodded, then closed his eyes and dropped his head back, his shallow breathing barely perceptible amid the moans of the other guards.

Then all three of their heads lifted at the sound of the Curator angrily poking at the fallen bodies.

"Where is everyone?! Where are the rest of the guards!" he screamed.

Black eyes became limitless holes as they glared at Emma, threatening to swallow her into the hellish depths, and one bony finger pointed at her. "You did this! You! Why can't I control you?!"

And she realized her wall must be doing more than just protecting Jones and her from the Piper's piping; it must be muffling his power. True love made her magic stronger.

A fleck of spittle glistened at the corner of the Piper's mouth, and he took several deep breaths as he brought himself under control, the outstretched hairs slowly lowering into the slick black helmet of his head. "Well, I may not be able to control you, but I can contain you. I'm sure you've noticed the lack of available exits." He gestured around the room but didn't take his eyes off Emma.

A small movement to the left caught her eye and she saw a white fox sitting patiently with tilted head, watching the scene dispassionately. It was the same fox she'd seen the first day she came through, the one who'd killed two of her attackers. It must have entered with Graham.

Graham tugged on Emma's hand to get her attention, then removed a dart from his pocket, the same kind he used to play at Granny's all those years ago. She smiled briefly, remembering his deadly accuracy. Her eyes were drawn back to his face and she saw him nod and look down, willing her to understand his intentions.

She did. Very clearly.

"You have magic?" Graham mouthed, with an expression that suggested he already knew the answer.

Emma nodded through her tears, only briefly wondering how he knew, doing everything she could to get her wits about her.

"Use it to find the exit." He closed his eyes again, his mouth set firmly against the pain.

She removed the shoelace from her wrist and gently twisted it around his own. "Goodbye, Graham." She touched her lips to his and caressed his cheek.

"Jones, help me get him up." Jones hesitated only a moment before lifting him under the shoulders while Emma hooked her arm around his waist until Graham was shakily standing on his feet.

"You can't leave, Mr. Humbert. But you're welcome to remain in here with your friends for as long as you like. Although I must say, three's a crowd to be sure." The Curator had a nasty smile on his face; he intended to leave them in that room indefinitely, with all the injured guards, with the smells of battle thickening the air and threatening to suffocate her. She was sorry she wouldn't see the look on his face when she blew her way through the wall with magic.

The fox stepped toward them, delicately pawing over the bodies, keeping its eyes on Emma and Jones, while she braced herself to lower her magic wall and direct the energy toward finding the exit.

"Now!" Graham shouted, moving forward and taking aim.

The Curator had his back to them, tip-toeing toward one stone wall, but turned back at the sound of Graham's shout, annoyed.

The fox suddenly hurtled toward them impossibly fast, no more than a blur. When it reached her's and Jones's feet, it dissolved into a patch of sand, and then she and Jones began to fall through, hands grasping at thin air until finally finding each other.

The last thing she saw before her head submerged was the surprised face of the Curator as Graham's dart neatly struck its mark directly between the Pied Piper's eyes.

* * *

**Review?**


	23. Scar Tissue

_Thank you so much for all your reviews! Sometimes I don't get the chance to respond, trying to spend as much time as I can writing, but I hope you know how special you are, how much I look forward to hearing from each and every one of you._

_Beta-read by the clever lethemoirai-can't thank you enough!_

_This chapter and some of the next comes as much-needed respite for our favorite couple. Enjoy! ~DD_

* * *

Chapter 23: Scar Tissue

* * *

Scars. Scars that dictated the rhythm of her past, the rhythm of her life. A never-ending parade of ugly, thickened cords of flesh that knotted deliberately over the most vulnerable parts of her body and her mind, leaving nothing untouched. She could feel them. Across her knee when she'd run into barbed wire as a kid, her left ankle where she'd cut herself shaving, several on her arms and torso from unfortunate hits in sword fights, her shoulder where the bullet had gone through, her side where she'd been stitched, and so on; each one demanding her attention like several insistent children.

But the most prominent and grotesque knitted across her heart, their immensity choking the fragile organ, until she was amazed it still beat at all.

Those were her thoughts as she had fallen through. That once more, a legion of scars had been added to the ones already accounted for. Her experience with the Piper had scored new lines in her flesh, seeking to devour her heart, to eventually suffocate it where it lay.

She landed on her backside, the jolt shooting through her body and jerking her head hard enough to force a grunt past her lips and tear her hands out of Jones's. Sitting with her head between her legs, arms draped over her knees, she took several calming breaths, willing herself not to pass out now that the immediate danger had passed, or so she assumed, as Jones wasn't ushering her up to run or hide. Thank God for small favors.

"Swan. Alright there?" he asked with a groan and his usual good humor.

But she wasn't alright. She was, well, she didn't know exactly what she was. She was swallowing, breathing, keeping her head low, focusing her eyes on the bed of pine needles on which she sat, everything she was supposed to do in case of a panic attack, and not succeeding all that well.

The first sobs sounded like the ones she used to have before she learned to be quiet, before she knew that sobbing children were a burden on their caregivers, and if Emma had learned anything in the foster care system, it was that invisible was best. So when the tears began, she was reduced to that tiny, shaking little girl who had no one to hold, or to hold her.

"Swan," she heard, his voice filled with tenderness, "Come here, love." And then he was there, unclasping her hands that'd gone white from how tightly she gripped them, trying to keep a hold on something, anything. His body wrapped her battered one, a shield attempting to protect her sanity.

She cried for Graham, for the years of his life that had been robbed by nothing more than ill-timed misfortune. Out of relief, for being free of the Piper's clutches once and for all. For her family and how she missed them. For Killian and what he must be going through. And for Jones—for how he'd managed to capture her heart when her heart wasn't available for the taking, and for what that might mean for them both.

Everything swirled in a blur of shredded emotion, pain and suffering. The Piper had done his job well, robbing her of nearly all restraint, driving her so close to breakdown, not quite succeeding. Whatever adrenaline or strength she'd had during her torture and their escape had all but deserted her now, and she let herself empty out until she was a hollow shell, null and void, thought obliterated, body reduced to pure sensation.

The smooth stroke of his hand up and down her back. The weight of his head pressing down against hers, as if he could collapse her into a tiny ball and hide her in his pocket, insulated from the world. The pulse in his neck beating against her forehead—at first somewhat quickened, but now steady and slow. The warmth of his legs as they enveloped her seated form.

He wasn't only using his arms to hold her, he was using his entire being.

A tiny pinpoint of light began to brighten in the midst of her pain, originating somewhere beneath her heart. Perplexed by it, she followed it as it evolved, feeling it pulsate the longer he held her. It was the seat of her magic, and it was there, ready to be called upon to heal all her most recent wounds.

But there was a part of her that didn't want to be healed just yet.

Sometimes, now that she was older, she would sit with her misery and just observe it. Pull it out like a favorite treasure and roll it between her fingers, try to find the source of it, where it got its power. So often she'd found that much of her suffering stemmed from her own false beliefs, lies she would have never seen had it not been for Killian counteracting them. Her internal lie detector was her super-power, but it had only been recently that she'd learned to apply it to herself.

And right now, surrounded by his scent and his warm, strong body, being held and sheltered felt good. Really good. She'd been without comfort for weeks, and now she had the best kind of comfort, the comfort from someone who loved her.

Her breathing slowed as the tears subsided, but she didn't move out of the circle of his arms, didn't release her hands from his chest. If anything, she only snuggled in closer, enjoying what was likely to be the last time she'd be able to get this close to him without provoking the kinds of activities she'd tried so hard to avoid since meeting him.

"Alright, love?" he croaked into the top of her head, as if he had been a little overcome by emotion himself.

A hiccup escaped her mouth, and her lips opened against his neck, giving her a taste of salty skin and everything Killian. She remembered that taste, and didn't answer him, afraid he would be the one to break their embrace once he realized her tears were spent, and she would be left without her anchor, alone once more.

He grunted, but tightened his arms about her, communicating quite clearly that he'd hold her indefinitely, stay with her as long as she needed, fix whatever needed fixing.

"Do you trust me?" he asked so quietly she almost missed it.

It took a moment before she nodded, the tangled mass of scar tissue steadily growing out of her heart threatening to choke out that feeble point of light. The light was attempting to hang on, waiting for her to make a choice to find the energy to either support it or abandon it.

"Come on, then." He moved back from her, not releasing her completely, until he was standing, grabbing a bar of soap from his pack one-handed, and leading her to the edge of a stream she'd only now just noticed. He dropped her hand while he removed his leather pants, letting his shirt-tail cover him, taking her hand again as he pulled her slowly into the water.

Coolness washed over her bare feet, her ankles, her calves and so on until she was encased up to the waist in it. She was half a person now, a disembodied version of her tormented self, half-cold, half-hot…

Then Jones was unbuttoning her shirt.

Fingers stilled, and she looked into his eyes, crystal blue as they held her gaze, asking her if she minded. This was no careful seduction; this was Jones doing what he did best, anticipating her needs, assessing hurts, righting wrongs.

So tired. Just let him. Let him fix this, if he could. Maybe, just maybe he could keep the little light alive. Perhaps he could use her magic to heal her. He could do that couldn't he?

But she didn't remember if he could, so she closed her eyes and nodded, letting his fingers slowly remove her shirt, allowing her time to acclimate to the idea of being undressed by him in a capacity not related to sex. It wasn't an experience she'd had with her own husband yet, but it was no less intimate.

She heard the sharp intake of angry breath, drawing her eyes open once again to see him staring at the pink scar screaming down her side. He said nothing and removed her linen pants, discarding them on shore, gently guiding her down until she was sitting upright on the pebbly bottom.

When he began to unwind the cloth that bound her breasts, she didn't even flinch.

Giving herself over to his gentle touch, he began washing away more than just the blood and grime and sweat. He was washing away the misery, the fear, the horror… the entire experience of the Pied Piper. It took some time before she noticed she was lying back now, staring into a starlit sky, so many pinpoints of light to match the seat of her magic growing stronger with every brush of his hand.

That's when the battle began.

As if sensing the growing power within her, the scars became more than just scars, but evil personifications of the Piper himself, unwilling to completely relinquish control over someone he had claimed for his own. The terrible piping echoed through the corridors of her mind, and she began to fully realize exactly what she'd been up against. Her walls may have prevented his ability to get the answers he sought, but they didn't prevent him from lingering in her head—the worst kind of torture.

She told herself he was dead, knew it was true, but the truth didn't matter as she became trapped in a nightmarish tug-of-war between dark and light. Her head started pounding, her body paralyzed with fear, and she could only watch in horror the delicate dance between that tiny light of magic fighting with everything it had to overcome the mass of tortured memories. The Piper would have the last laugh.

Jones was washing her hair, combing it out between his fingers, massaging her scalp. It should have felt heavenly, but the Piper in her head became angry, stomping his silken-clad toes in protest against the onslaught of Jones's deft fingers.

And all she could do was observe, a bystander in the most important battle she'd fought to date, one that would decide her fate. It killed her to be so helpless.

But she wasn't helpless. She had Jones. Each time his hands came in contact with her skin, the magic grew stronger, able to push back against the darkness threatening to claim her sanity. And when his hands moved away, her magic waned.

Emma knew what she needed to do if she was to have a future, if she was to be able to return to her own time, and not lose her mind in the process. Gathering the parts of her that could still think clearly, she screamed at her limbs to move, flipping over and pressing her body against Jones's, gasping at the sudden burning sensation that covered her from head to toe.

The light grew brighter, overcoming the dark shadows where bad memories dwell, ready to spring out at a moment's notice, seizing any opportunity to replay and conquer. She'd been down this road before, knew the time it took for such shadows to retreat to nothing, to no longer hold the same emotional sway. It had taken the enduring love of her family to overcome the years of hurt from her past. And now it would take love, the love of Killian Jones.

She looked into his eyes with an awareness growing in conjunction with her magic. His eyes were soft and impossibly blue, staring at her with so much love she thought he'd break her heart. A question, _Are you sure?_ rang down and around her as though he'd spoken it. But she _was_ sure, letting him see her decision in the fierceness of her gaze, knowing that at this moment she wasn't giving in to the abyss that awaited her if she walked away from this opportunity. She needed him, body and soul; he was the only one who could truly save her from hell, who could burn that tangled mass of new scars out of her heart, and let her reclaim her beating organ once again.

He didn't need any other assurance, and suddenly his mouth was hot against her neck as he moved them to a sitting position. The light within grew unimaginably bright, surrounding them in a golden glow; she didn't know if he could see it, if he cared. The heat blazed, and she threw her head back as a wave of fire seared through her flesh, her hair cold where it clung to her back.

Hot and cold, hard and soft, strong and weak, frantic movement and calm hesitation. The paradoxes of Jones.

He groaned, a deep, raw sound in his throat, raw in hers. The Piper in her head began to shrink, his color fading to the gray of old memories as Jones claimed her for his own, and she was no longer at the mercy of the residue of the Pied Piper.

And then she was falling again. Only this time she wasn't alone. This time he went with her, and she was unable to leave him behind even if she would, his grip secure around her waist, his breath shuddering against her neck.

Emma Swan Jones had never taken a heart before, but she knew if she removed hers from the cavity in her chest, it'd be bright red and beating freely once more, returned to its former state before she'd ever met the Pied Piper.

Emma Jones was healed.

====o0I0o====

It was a long time before he became aware of himself again. It started slowly, in small windows of perception: the soft weight of her thighs where they rested on his, the pull of her hands as they clutched his head against her chest, the soft flesh of her hips under his palms, her contented sigh into the top of his head.

There were no words to describe the integration of flesh that had occurred, a fusion of magic, release, and love, true love in all its exposed and ragged power.

"That was…" he trailed off, at a loss. Her hold loosened as she began to pull back, and an icy tendril of fear snaked through his gut. He couldn't look at her, couldn't see the regret in her eyes, couldn't… but he forced his eyes up. '_A one-time thing'_ hung between them, and he could see it register across her face.

"Unexpected," she finished decisively, a tiny smile on her face without a trace of regret.

She pressed a kiss to his furrowed brow. "Please tell me _you're_ not having second thoughts," she whispered teasingly.

Her comment sent a tiny shock through him, and he wondered if it were possible that she wanted this as much as he did.

"I'm merely surprised you're not," he said, studying her clear green gaze, unable to believe this was really happening, that she wasn't running away. Removing his hands from her back, he trailed them in the water, freeing her if she so wished.

"Why? Is that a reaction you've come to expect after you've made love to a woman?" she quipped, moving her hands from the back of his neck to his shoulders, but not releasing him.

"No, just a reaction I've come to expect from _you_," he said seriously, still studying her, not quite trusting her yet.

She stiffened slightly and her cheeks bloomed with shame, but her eyes were cloudless; she knew exactly what she was doing. And then his mouth was on hers, hungry and insistent. He had waited so long for her to decide about him, about them, his self-control abandoned him, and he still didn't know if this was real, but his body quite obviously didn't care.

He carried her to deeper water, biting her lips and her shoulder, taking from her what she'd taken from him, bruising, demanding, powerful. She confronted him each time, her nails raking his back, equally bold, the woman he wanted by his side in a fight because she knew _how_ to fight.

She was a bloody marvel, if he ever had any doubt.

"Better now, Captain?" she whispered into his mouth, running her tongue across his lower lip, making him wonder about the change in her, at the same time as he thrilled at the thought of being able to share more than just this adventure with her.

What he didn't know was how long her new-found resolve was going to last, so he voiced the one thing that had been on his mind since he'd left Mac's that morning. "You ran," he said baldly, keeping his gaze as steady as his hands on the wheel of his ship.

"What?" The smile dropped from her face and she disentangled herself, cold water replacing warmth as she stepped away. He was immediately sorry for it, but the last conversation they'd had involved her returning to her husband, Jones be damned, and he had to know what was going on in her head.

"You ran. From me. You asked me to trust you, to have faith in you. And yet you ran. And unless I'm mistaken, I'd venture to say you've run from me before." He wasn't angry, mostly resigned.

Regret crossed her face sure and true. "How did you know? You haven't even lived that yet," she said quietly, disbelief making her eyes widen slightly.

"By the ease with which you did it." He ran his hand through his hair, looking away from her, noting the gentle current as it swept downstream, burbling over the occasional tree trunk that had fallen in the water.

She didn't answer, the sounds of the forest echoing around them instead, her silence condemning her.

"Don't you understand the danger you were in? That… thing… wasn't going to release you. You're lucky Mac thought I deserved a say in this expedition of yours, or else who knows how long you may have been imprisoned." How could he make her see how serious this was?

"Bloody hell, Swan, you bloody well have to stay alive if I'm to marry you in future!" he fumed with more vehemence than he'd intended, but she'd touched something inside of him, a place no one had ever penetrated.

And that was the crux of it all, the thought of losing her filled him with unspeakable fear. His chest seized and he was struggling to breathe, so he kept his face averted from hers. She really had no idea what lengths he'd go to for her, what he would sacrifice for her, who he would fight to keep her safe. It frustrated him that she could tease him, without concern for the cost to his body, to his soul.

"I know," she said softly, closing the distance between them and turning his face to hers. Her eyes had gone the color of moss that hangs off trees, that uses the air around it for its very sustenance. And he thought that perhaps she was sucking the very air from his own lungs, deriving her own sustenance from him.

"Do you? Gods, woman, you'll be the death of me." He leaned his forehead against hers, not touching her otherwise, just breathing her in.

"I know," she reiterated, a little more strongly. "I'm sorry." She stepped into the circle of his arms, placing her hands on his chest.

Closing his eyes against the flood of emotion, he buried his face in her neck, holding her tightly, willing her to understand what she meant to him. A couple of stray tears slipped from behind his eyelids, unobtrusive, tip-toeing across her soft skin as they traveled downward until they joined the water that lapped at her shoulders. He hoped she wouldn't notice, that her skin was already too wet. But she did notice.

"I love you, Jones," she whispered. "And I don't know what it means for the timeline, or what it means for getting out of this place, wherever we are. I just know I don't want to lose you."

"Nor I you, lass," he choked.

"I didn't know I'd miss you so much," she muttered into his neck, her voice thick with emotion, and she pressed herself against him even more firmly.

He lifted her up, arms still locked around her waist, and spun her around, genuinely happy for the first time since finding her in that cell. It was a dream, a glorious dream, to have his Swan declare her love for him too. He kissed her again, slow and lazy, his heart full, no longer drowning in unrequited love.

"Hey Jones, can I tell you something?" she asked, pulling back to gaze at him with teasing eyes.

"Anything." he declared, wondering what she was thinking.

"I'm starving."

He hadn't expected her answer, and it must have shown on his face because her laughter rippled across the water, hit the bank on the opposite side and pooled around them. If he could have captured that moment in a looking glass, he would have, preserving it for all time. He ran a finger over her lips, memorizing the number of lines written around her cheerful eyes, the way her mouth turned up very slightly at the corners, not quite hiding a smile, the flush over her cheekbones.

"Let me get you something, then," he said, making no move toward shore.

A startled look crossed her face. "Seriously?!"

"And to what do you refer, Lady Swan?" He pulled her closer, letting his hands begin a slow exploration of her body that he'd been unable to fully appreciate earlier.

"You! There's no way you're ready, after, after…" she fumbled.

He smirked, bending to scrape his cheek against hers to speak into her ear. "I love to see you at a loss for words when I'm about, love."

She hit him, a pro forma protest, still grinning. "Well, you're just going to have to wait, pirate. Unless you like making love to a corpse." She pulled back and moved toward shore, shooting him a look over her shoulder with an obvious invitation. He hung back, intent on getting the backside view.

She knew what he was about and walked confidently, ripples of water undulating toward him to match the swaying of her hips from side to side. He sighed as though he'd been punched in the gut; she really did have the loveliest arse.

He followed slowly, letting the cool water dampen the fire in his belly, watching as she bent to retrieve a blanket from her pack before draping it over her shoulders, sitting down, and rifling through a side pocket. She retrieved a crinkly package, clear as glass, holding bread, or what must have once been bread but was now covered in thick mold.

"Well if you needed proof of how long I'd been there, here it is." She held it in her hands for a moment, a disgusted look on her face.

"I didn't. I merely had to look at you to see you were telling the truth. You're all skin and bones, Swan," he said warmly.

She tossed the old food to the ground, following it with her eyes, and then noticing it had landed near his feet, she abandoned her searching and allowed her gaze to travel up his legs slowly, lingering here and there, studying him with a tiny smile on her face.

Her thorough examination left him feeling like he'd been slowly immersed in molten rock, but at the same time doused with cold water. She was comparing him to her husband. "Like what you see, Swan?" he asked, conflicted.

"Maybe," she said noncommittally, going back to her bag with a simple shake of her head.

He grabbed his own blanket and wrapped in it, the wool a little rough against his wet skin, a barrier to the unreasonable struggle going on within him, wondering if she would always compare them, wondering how he measured up against his elder self.

She pulled out another item, unwrapping it to reveal a biscuit of some sort. "Here. It's a granola bar. You'll like it."

She bit into hers and a look of such bliss passed over her face he nearly forgot he was hungry too. He tried his, the crunchy sweetness filling his mouth, smiling to let her know it was good, trying to shake off his misgivings. Grabbing their canteens, he held the biscuit in his mouth while he filled them, handing hers over when he was done.

"Thank you," she said gratefully, smiling widely and then drinking deeply.

He watched her throat bob a few times as she swallowed, still feeling somewhat surreal, then drank from his own.

"I'm not sure how cold it'll get tonight, but I think it's a safe bet we'll need a fire," he said, scanning the area for small sticks and logs.

"Then you don't plan on sharing my blanket, Jones? I think it's a safe bet I can keep you as warm as any fire," she tempted, one delicate brow arching upward.

"Is that an invitation?" he asked, his body instantly responding despite his sense of foreboding that this couldn't last, it couldn't be real, she was still going home, he'd still be without her for three hundred years, he'd still want…

"Does a lady have to ask twice?" The question interrupted his thoughts, and he looked down at her head tilted slightly upward, her cheekbones highlighted by the starlight.

He laughed, setting aside his worry for now, losing himself in how she turned an innocent remark into banter, full of innuendo as skilled as his. "I would despair if you did." He bent down to press a kiss to her mouth, making the decision to enjoy this for as long as he was able.

It was her turn to smile.

====o0I0o====

They sat by the firelight over a supper of fresh pine needle tea, which had very little flavor, and a couple of tins of sardines and crackers. She couldn't stop touching him, running a foot from his thigh to his ankle, tracing the length of his right arm sans the Milah tattoo, interlacing her fingers with his whenever a hand was free. It was a never-ending connection of two bodies that had been separated for too long. He didn't seem to mind, adding his own touches to the mix, brushing his arm against hers, massaging the back of her neck while they stared at the fire.

"You seem… recovered," he said after their meal was finished, and she knew he was talking about her ordeal.

"I am, oddly enough. I think the only thing lingering is the fact that I can't eat as much as I'm used to. I'm stuffed!" She leaned back and patted her belly through the blanket. His eyes followed her hand, a look of longing passing over his face, and she knew it wouldn't be long before he was ready for bed.

"I'll take that as a thank you for providing an adequate supper for milady," he said, brushing the crumbs from his fingers and moving around behind her. He opened his blanket and pulled her against him, letting her head rest on his shoulder. They both sighed loudly, chuckling with the timing.

"I _am_ recovered, though." She paused. "I-I couldn't have done that without you, you know." The warmth from his chest penetrated her blanket and she shivered as her body temperature tried to adjust to his. She had missed his touch, how relaxed she felt with him.

"What, love?" he whispered suggestively into her ear, eliciting a shiver throughout her limbs for an entirely different reason.

"Well, that too," she said smiling, picking up on the unspoken question and loving the easy camaraderie. "But no. I meant I wouldn't be completely recovered. Most people don't bounce back from torture in just a few hours."

"I should think that'd be obvious. Why do you sound surprised, though? You've used your magic to heal yourself before." He rested his head against hers, inhaling deeply.

"Because you activated it somehow, and that's never happened before. I was always the one to gather the energy and use it. That was…" she trailed off, unsure what to call it, staring into the glowing embers as she tried to put words to the experience.

"Unexpected," he finished, and she could hear the affection in his voice.

"Yeah," she whispered, turning her cheek toward his, feeling his beard scrape across her skin. He was such a wonderful man, willing to take what she had to give, instinctively responding to her needs.

"Do you think it means anything?" he asked, sounding concerned but hopeful.

"Beyond the obvious? I don't know, but I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth."

She captured his lips like she'd been doing it all her life, and maybe she had been. Maybe they were one flesh, had always been one flesh, from the moment they were both born, regardless of time. This was a gift, _he_ was a gift, and Emma was going to accept it for what it was. No, not only accept it, but enjoy it for as long as she could, without fighting anymore.

She'd save her fight for whatever lay ahead.

* * *

**Danh, danh, danh! So yes, more adventure up ahead, and they will need each other to make it through... Much happiness to you all for taking the time to read, follow and review (if you really love me!) ;D**


	24. A Quiet Morning

_Wow, guys! You are the best reviewers ever! Thanks so much for your interest in this story and for following it so diligently. I love you all!_

_Beta-read by the able lethemoirai._

* * *

Chapter 24: A Quiet Morning

* * *

A tickling breeze kissed Emma's face, drawing her out of a lazy sleep. The accompanying sound of song birds and the fresh smell of pine encouraged her to open her eyes, as though the morning itself was anxious for her to join in the excitement of a new day. She was greeted by a beautiful blue sky peeking through the tops of fluffy pine needles, and she stretched lazily, happy to note that all traces of former muscle soreness from the fight and escape were gone. Lifting her arms above the blanket, she saw that the raw and broken skin around her wrists had healed to a sturdy pink.

The second thing she noticed was that she was alone, warmly snuggled in their blankets, still smelling of her husband first thing in the morning. She tugged the wool up to her face, breathing in his scent, remembering…

Remembering the feel of his smooth skin beneath her fingers, how she recognized all his scars, the few of them there were. Remembering his voice scratchy with _Gods, this can't be… this can't be real. I've never…_, and further words of passion spoken in half-whispers. Remembering his gentle touch and how he could make her blood race, how he could blot out every other thought with a moan. She had held nothing back, and neither had he.

The night had wandered, breaking apart and fusing at the seams, ending entirely too soon. She had slept soundly in between bouts of lovemaking; whoever wakened first would instantly reach for the other with an urgency she recognized well, both afraid the creeping dawn would sever the tentative bond that had finally solidified with the joining of their flesh. It was too new to be real, and she had clung to him as tightly as he to her, willing the night hours to stop where they were or at least slow their journey toward the day.

It reminded her of the first time they had been together—her past, his future—at times a little awkward as he devoted himself to discovering her preferences, shy smiles and chuckles rippling through the air. But she already knew what he liked—which was pretty much all of it—but the little things too, like the way his skin rippled with gooseflesh every time she trailed her lips up his chest and across his neck, or the way he sucked in his bottom lip when she pulled a questioning hand across his stomach, exploring further down.

Yes, she knew her pirate, inside and out. Jones had filled in so many blanks for her, for why Killian was the way he was, how he had grown up, where he had come from. And just what he'd been dealing with when he'd entered a relationship with Milah, including why he was so broken afterwards.

But now Emma was thrown into the mix. According to Milah, he had been forced to forget when she'd slipped the potion in his rum, so it wasn't his choice originally. Had the potion made him forget more than just who she was? Had it made him forget who _he_ was? Who he had been? Had she somehow imprinted on his body, and the potion had had to do more than just excise memories? Would that explain why it had taken him so long to become the man she had married, a man so similar to his former self?

Rolling over, she caught sight of a movement, her eyes drawn toward the water. Her pirate in question was standing in the stream a few feet from shore, back to her with his pants rolled up, wearing his leather jacket against the chill. He held some kind of fishing pole he'd fashioned out of spare line and a branch. She smiled at him, watching his graceful tug on the line, the peaceful look on his face, and appreciating his never-ending resourcefulness.

Sitting up, she pulled her white shirt over her head and wrapped the blanket around her waist before walking out to join him, shivering as soon as her feet touched the icy water. _Was it this cold last night?_ She continued the couple of steps toward him. Ducking under his arms, she enfolded him with her own, lifting her lips for a kiss. He obliged with a smile.

"Ah, so she lives," he teased, tightening his arm around her back, reminding her of the first time he'd said that to her, eons ago, the day after they'd first met.

"I should think after last night, there'd be no doubt," she countered sleepily, relaxing into his half-embrace.

"Perhaps not in my nether regions, no," he chuckled, and then asked, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good. Really good," she said with a sigh. And for once she meant it.

He must have believed her because he stayed quiet, casting the line again.

"What are the odds?" she said, resting her head against his chest and watching the water wrinkle as he gently pulled the rod toward them.

"Hmmm?" His eyes were focusing on the movement of the water, and darted to the left at the sound of a tiny splash as a fish surfaced for a bite.

"I was just thinking. What are the odds I'd find you? Of all the places in all of time that I could have fallen—and I still don't know why or how I did—I came here. I found you."

He looked down at her, his former distraction with fishing gone, blue eyes transparent like a crystal wineglass. He wanted it to be true, that they had been drawn together for some reason other than just chance.

"That can't be a coincidence, can it?" she asked, reading him as surely as he usually read her.

"I'd like to think not." His lips barely turned up and he tucked her more closely into his side, swallowing thickly with suppressed emotion. She waited to see if he had anything to add, but he remained quiet.

"Then what is it? Why am I here? Who sent me? As far as I know, nothing odd was happening back home, no villains I know or major curses or breakdowns. So why now?" It had been bothering her since she'd been in her lonely jail cell, trying to figure out how she had managed to fall back into time, what had actually happened.

"Maybe you just couldn't resist my charm," he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice, having recovered from whatever was bothering him a moment ago.

"Ha ha. Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking," she replied, then continued her mostly one-sided conversation. "But do you ever get the idea that maybe there's more going on here than at first glance? I mean, Milah was here… and Graham. It just doesn't make sense. Sometimes I get the feeling this is all a bit _personal._"

His arm jerked back and she ducked out of the way as he hooked a fish, its shiny body flailing in the water, trying with all its might to escape. She knew the feeling.

"Ah! There he is. Been playing with the bait for the last ten minutes, the rascal." His face was bright with cheerfulness, and Emma stepped back onto shore, making room for the thrashing fish as he held it above the water line and walked inland.

"Make an excellent breakfast, I'll say. Hungry, love?"

She stopped breathing at the sight of him, black hair disheveled, blue eyes bright with warmth. A vision of Killian on the deck of the Jolly Roger, pulling up a fish with the same delighted expression flashed through her memory, arresting all other sights and sounds except that brief moment in time. Her mind instantly started rolling around and around. What if she had made the wrong decision? What if there had been another choice yesterday when she was confronted with healing or darkness. _What if_… The never-ending _if_ of this entire journey stalked her thoughts as though it could wrestle her into second-guessing everything. It was working.

His expression fell when he saw her face, and he turned away quickly, hiding his disappointment in the work associated with his catch. She followed more slowly, wondering how to handle the situation in which she found herself, torn between a love for the same man, stuck in different times.

His easy manner was gone, replaced with a stiltedness she'd seen every time he was about to confront her with something that was bothering him. But he didn't speak, and set the fish on a bed of clean pine needles he'd gathered together, forcefully scraping the scales with the back of his knife. He took a long, thin sapling and wove the pointed end through the silvery body and set it on a couple of forked sticks he'd placed on either side of the fire so it could roast.

He sat down, poking the coals and blowing the embers while placing fresh sticks on top to rekindle the fire; Emma joined him hesitantly.

"I'm sorry. I…"

"You were thinking about him again," he interrupted dryly, intentionally not looking at her.

"Yeah," she answered simply, not even bothering to ask how he knew.

"What about him, then." His hands stilled, and he drew his knees up underneath his arms, effectively blocking her out.

"Well," she started slowly, "I was just wondering if time is progressing the same way for him as it is for me." If it was, then he was frantic with worry, but if it wasn't, then maybe, just maybe he didn't even know she was gone yet, or worse, it had been years and he'd given up hope.

"There's no way to know that," he said, picking up his stick and poking at the fire again, as if he needed to be doing something with his hands.

"No, there isn't. And I was thinking how you're so like him… but…" she paused, unsure how to word it.

"But different too," he said with a frown.

"Different too," she agreed quietly.

He sighed heavily, and she could tell he thought he fell short of her expectations, short of her love for her husband. She placed a hand on his arm, waiting for him to turn to her, to make him understand exactly what she was feeling.

"And I love you both. So I'm sorry. And when I come home to you, I swear I won't regret a thing. And when I tell you the story of how we met, I swear I'll remember every detail of this… of us..." A few tears slipped down her cheeks, and she gripped her hands tightly, wishing she knew how to handle this, wishing she hadn't ruined his happy morning with an unexpected memory and a mere glance.

His eyes brightened like the clouds had broken open to admit the sun's rays across the ocean expanse, and he dropped a knee and tugged her toward him, burying his face in her hair while she cried against his shoulder, so sorry for the struggle still raging within her, the struggle she thought she'd given up yesterday.

"Shh, Swan, there's no need for regrets," he said thickly, pulling back slightly and tilting her chin up so he could look into her face. "You once asked me how I would feel if I were _him_, knowing you'd dallied with a younger version of myself. Emma, I would be relieved to know you had been safe, and I wouldn't be angry that you'd fallen in love with me, I'd be angry that I'd had you within my grasp and I'd let you slip away."

The truth of his words thrashed through her body like the fish that had been desperately trying to escape the hook in its mouth. He was right, he _would_ be angry that he'd been forced to forget. She pressed her mouth to his, and after a moment, it turned desperate, as the need to be joined once again overtook every other thought except her fervent desire to find another way.

They ate burned fish for breakfast.

====o0I0o====

She was beautiful. The untouchable kind of beauty, although he _could_ touch her, at least for now. Her unending loyalty to her family, her desire to always do the right thing, her sense of honor, all traits someone like Jamison, or Mrs. Fritz even, would consider excellent qualifications for a wife. He had been thinking of her that way for awhile now, as a wife, even though he hadn't asked her yet. He didn't suppose it counted that he'd asked her in the future, but there it was, the desire to yoke himself for all time to Emma Swan.

He could do nothing about it now, and so he sat back, allowing his gaze to travel over her while she cleared her things: blond hair cascading down her back, clean and fresh, narrow waist accentuated by her vest, leather trousers stretching across her sexy bottom while she bent down, the round fullness he'd finally had the fortune to become fully acquainted with, delicate feet stepping around the campsite… bare feet.

What were they going to do about her feet? Emptying his pack to rearrange everything, he thought about offering his boots, then maybe sacrificing his jacket, fashioning a pair of leather slippers out of it to cover his own feet. If they were only going to be hiking on pine needles, a pair of shoes wouldn't matter, but this land seemed to produce any number of different types of terrain and he didn't want to be caught lacking.

He was in the middle of counting and compiling his remaining tins of food when he found the envelope tucked in between the metal canisters.

"Hey, Swan, look at this!" he called, breaking the wax seal to reveal a letter.

She was folding her own blanket, attaching it to the straps on the bottom of her pack when she looked up at him. He gently waved the paper and she dropped her pack to stand next to him.

"What is it?" she asked curiously.

"_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jones_," he read, then stopped and grinned at her. "I love that, don't you just love that?" He winked at her, watching her face for signs of rejection. But there were none, and a small thrill shot through him at the thought that perhaps she was beginning to look at him the same way she saw his future self. If he could only be so fortunate.

"Idiot," she said, punching him on the arm, "Keep reading."

_The reason for this letter is to inform you of those things I was unable to reveal before you left—mainly that you will have to pass through three tests to acquire the key to the door of time. _

_If I have timed this correctly, then you should have already passed the first one (testing your strength of character) through a certain Nicholas Stranger. Please forgive me, but information specific to the door had to remain hidden from him, and therefore you, due to his unprecedented ability to control through the use of a simple magical pipe. The realm you have entered is unpredictable, and although its size is yet to be determined, Stranger controls only a small corner of it. As far as I know, he is still currently seeking the exit of the realm of time, an undertaking that has occupied many of his lifetimes. The less he knows the better._

"I wonder how he knows all this," she said, pointing to the letter. "He told me he couldn't see much past the waterfall door."

"It seems Mac is able to manipulate more than just what we see," he answered thoughtfully, not sure how he felt about Mac's role in all of this, then continued, "At least it's good to know Stranger doesn't control everything here." That was yet another concern he had set aside in light of their more recent escapades, but which had begun to bother him once they were packing up to continue traveling.

"He's dead, though, so even if he did, it shouldn't matter, right?" A small shudder passed through her and he knew she was remembering those last few moments of their escape.

"Just because someone is dead, Swan, doesn't mean his reach doesn't extend beyond his own purview," he said softly.

She sighed. "You're right. Keep reading."

He paused until she looked up at him. "I love a woman who recognizes superiority when she sees it," he smirked.

"Shut up, pirate," she said, shaking her head and glancing at him with twinkling green eyes before turning her attention back to the paper.

_The second obstacle is the curse veil, through which you will have to pass to obtain the key. It will test who you are and how well you know yourself; you should be able to withstand it, given what I know of you both, and of course true love breaks all curses. You will only have a certain amount of time to make it out, or you risk being stuck in the false reality forever. There will be some way of counting out your hours there, so pay attention!_

Her hand gripped his arm. "This sounds dangerous. Do you think we should worry?"

He shook his head. "_This_ makes you worry about danger? Not back at the fairies' tests… or the pirates… or Stranger? Are you mad? What's the difference now or then?" This entire journey had been one harrowing experience after the next, and her life had been endangered repeatedly.

"But… I never worried I'd be stuck for all time. I always figured we'd eventually get out," she said anxiously.

For some reason, being stuck in a false reality was more frightening to her than all the other dangers she'd faced. That told him more about her character than anything he'd learned thus far.

He transferred the letter to the other hand and pulled her against his side. "Swan, what's it like to always be so confident you'll succeed?" he asked gently, loving her inability to live a lie.

"You're asking me that? When you're the picture of confidence in every situation?" she replied incredulously.

"Compliments, Swan, compliments. You wouldn't want my head to swell, would you… Or maybe you do…" he smirked, looking at her beneath his lashes.

She punched him in the arm again. "Really? Now? Your timing is flawless," she said sarcastically but struggling to hide her grin. He grinned back and planted a quick kiss to the top of her head and continued reading.

_The last trial will test your faith in each other; you will have to face the Balgienit monster—I believe you have a dagger made from its tooth. It holds the key to the door of time. Defeat it or not, but get that key._

_Remember how things work: if you hold something in your mind, your steps will be led toward it. This works for everything! I know the Balgienit lives in a very cold region, and you will likely need to supply yourselves with woolens and underclothes. Just think about them and you'll have them! You will always be supplied with what you NEED, not with what you want. _

_Isobel sends Mr. Jones a message to keep his eyes open—a gift has been provided for you. Recognize it and use it as you will. _

_May you have the wisdom you need as you continue on this journey. It has been our great pleasure to have known you, and we shall always remain,_

_Your affectionate friends,_

_Ian and Isobel MacRannoch_

"And here I was hoping we were close to the end," Emma said with a sigh.

"Not I," he said quietly as a pang shot through him and he refolded the letter, trying to hide his sorrow at their inevitable separation.

Her tone dropped, just above a whisper. "My mother always tells me to have faith. And I suppose if we're going to be tested on it…" Her face softened at the mention of her mother, reminding him that she was returning to an entire family, not only to him.

"Might as well hone it now?" he finished.

"Yeah, maybe so." She looked away at the remains of their campsite, brushing off any nostalgic thoughts. "Hey, you wanna try it?" Her eyes traveled down to her bare feet, so he knew she was referring to the realm providing their needs.

"You mean acquiring a pair of boots?" he asked with a smile.

"Yeah. I wonder what I need to do?" Her eyes widened and she jumped forward a little bit, then turned around, looking at the ground. "Cool!" she shouted.

Her boots were lying behind her, as though they'd always been there, tossed aside the last time she'd removed them from her feet.

"That's—" he was about to say "interesting," but she grinned again, and he looked down to see a pair of thick woolen stockings lying beside her boots. He was reminded of the grappling hook that had appeared at his feet on his way to rescue her; all he had done was think about it, only to have it appear. Apparently Mac was correct and a thought was enough.

"Check this out, Jones! Is there anything you need?" She looked insufferably pleased with herself and he stilled, drinking in the moment.

"A large mattress with a fluffy coverlet, where I can lay you down and pay homage to every inch of your delectable skin," he said with a fair amount of seriousness.

Nothing happened, although he hadn't expected it to, except that her green eyes gleamed and her cheeks turned a very becoming rosy color.

"I suppose that qualifies as a want and not a need," he said pointedly, as the desire for the feel of her soft curves writhing underneath him made him want to shed his jacket.

"Something like that, but I appreciate the sentiment," she said huskily, stepping close enough to run a finger into the neck of his shirt.

"Vixen," he whispered into her mouth.

====o0I0o====

Having both held the vision of a key in their minds, they headed off through the forest in the direction of the sun, Emma judging it to be somewhere around mid-day. He asked about Storybrooke, and she told him everything, how Henry had brought her to the town, how she had broken the curse, how she had met Killian—although she omitted the details of his revenge, and she could tell he imagined he helped her get the compass for the same reason he was helping her now. She didn't correct him, afraid to bring up Milah now, especially when mentioning the black-haired beauty was like a bucket of ice water to the face, and she'd had enough of those at the hands of the curator. She told him about Neal being Henry's father, about past failed relationships and the spark of hope she'd gotten from Graham. It took hours, and he was mostly quiet as he listened, only occasionally asking a question for clarification.

The forest had begun to alter—the mat of pine needles giving way to softened dirt—so slowly she might not have noticed it if it weren't for the increasing difficulty of hiking. The air thickened even as the trees thinned, the smell of fresh pine compressing into the watery smell of gum trees, which she recognized by their characteristic black spiky seed pods, and thick-kneed cypresses she remembered from pictures of swamps. A path with clumps of waist-high grasses emerged before them, snaking its way among the lower, water-logged areas.

Their conversation had moved beyond who everyone was and how she came to be in Storybrooke to details about their life together. He was understandably most curious about his future self.

"Then I'm not a pirate in the future?"

"Oh, no," she chuckled, "There aren't many opportunities for piracy unless you can outrun the big ships, and even though the Jolly Roger has a nice-sized motor retrofitted on her, she'd be no match for the guns available in that time."

"Guns. The thing Astley had," he said bitterly.

"Yeah," she replied, surprised he remembered. "Only his was an older generation of them, and they're much more powerful now, er, in my time," she clarified.

He shuddered, quiet for a moment, the only sound the swishing of their feet through the grass.

"What's my chosen profession then?" he asked, helping her jump from one clump of grass to another to bypass a low-lying area saturated with fetid water.

"Sometimes you work at the sheriff's office with me—we enforce the laws of the town—but mostly you run charters and day-sail fishing trips for local tourists. You're quite popular with the ladies, I might add. Always playing up the pirate act for your guests." She refrained from telling him about the hook—unsure how he would take the news about losing his hand.

"Sounds like me. And Jamison? What does he do?" The affection in his voice was unmistakable.

"Um, I'd never met Jamison until I came back here." Her arm brushed his as the path narrowed, a tiny gesture of sympathy for the friend Jones obviously cared for.

"What happened to him then?" he asked with concern, pushing aside the branch of a large bush blocking the path.

"I really don't know. You never mentioned him."

A dark look crossed his face. "Hmmm. And Smee? What about Smee?"

"Oh yes, Smee is still with you. He still works as first mate and is dating a woman—Molly—he met at The Rabbit Hole… um, like a tavern. He follows her around like she's the air to his lungs, but she seems kind-hearted enough. I think they might get married," she added.

"Smee? Married? That's a concept," he chuckled lightly.

"Things slowed down in Storybrooke once Pan was defeated. The town was no longer cloaked, so tourism jumped up, and people started moving in. Everyone still knows everyone else, and absolutely nothing is private, but it's fun, and we all get together sometimes and read the book, sometimes contemplate returning to the Enchanted Forest… But so far we haven't had any way to return."

"But you do now," he stated flatly.

"Yeah, if I make it home, we do now," she agreed, thinking about the magic beans given to them by Miriam Johnson at the return of her children.

"Of course you will, Swan." His voice sounded thick and tired, and she wondered how much of it was from the traveling and lack of sleep the previous evening, and how much of it was from thinking about what would happen when they arrived at the door of time.

They stayed quiet for awhile, as if the mention of returning to her own time had sucked all the pleasure out of finally sharing her story with him. The trees had faded into the background, and they were crossing a wide expanse of what was a characteristic wetland. The muddy ground sucked at the bottom of her boots, making the hiking even more arduous, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. The air was thick and unmoving, clinging to her skin like a heavy cloak and smelling of rotting vegetation and a forgotten animal or two.

Something pinched at her neck and she slapped it, pulling her hand back expecting to see a smashed mosquito. But she missed, and something large and quick flitted away from her, then rounded and aimed for her face. She ducked, her body instantly responding to the threat, trying to dodge the determined insect. It flew past her head and then began circling her scalp, buzzing in her ear, looking for a place to bite. She felt like a crazy woman, running and batting at her head, her steps erratic.

"Swan! What are you doing?" She heard the suck of his boots as he followed behind her with quickened steps.

"What is it with this time and the insects!" she complained loudly, thinking of the fairies' defense lines. She gasped suddenly as everything went dark.

.

.

Those were the last words she'd spoken.

Killian had been lost in thought, torn between his desire to keep her with him and the desire to help her return to the life she missed, when she began waving her arms and running at crazed angles. He couldn't see anything tormenting her, so he followed, about to ask her to slow down and let him see if he could find whatever it was vexing her.

And then he saw it, a faint shimmering wall that extended in all directions, and he knew. Before he could call out, warn her or grab her, she had passed through the veil, her pack and weapons falling to the ground in a discarded heap as she disappeared. There'd been no time to make a plan, to even capture a quick kiss and the assurance he'd come to expect whenever they had faced anything, to reconnect as the team they always seemed to be.

With nothing left to do, Killian Jones ran in after her, praying he'd remember Mac's words of warning.

* * *

_To all my guest reviewers: I usually respond individually, but I can't for you guys, so let me just tell you all how much I appreciate hearing from you!_

_To Maggie: Thanks for your encouraging words, girl! I'm glad the adventure isn't becoming overbearing since there's still a bit to go!_

_To Jessica: I meant to answer you before, but this fic has at least 8-10 more chapters give or take (I haven't written them yet and sometimes chapters do their own amazing things and throw curve balls I never saw coming, which makes the story longer than anticipated…) But I'm glad you're enjoying what I have so far!_

_To operaghost13: I have no idea what I feel either. Torn for the most part, like Emma… Don't worry though, true love with prevail (of course)!_

_Have a wonderful transition from summer to fall, everyone. Cheers!~DD_


	25. The Curse

_Beta-read by lethemoirai, thank the gods for her help!_

_The adventure continues..._

* * *

Chapter 25: The Curse

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the noise. Buzzing, humming, honking that didn't quite sound like geese, things slamming, dripping, whirring, falling. They weren't sounds he recognized, and he opened his eyes gingerly, almost dreading to learn where he was.

Which was standing in front of a rather ordinary looking door. Glancing from side to side, he saw an ordinary corridor populated by similar looking doors and a window at the end, letting in the late afternoon sunlight. It was cleaner than to be expected in an average tavern, and a wall to wall rug covered the entire floor, which was unusual.

Swan was bloody nowhere to be seen.

Taking a calming breath as his mind imagined the worst, he raised his left hand to knock, thinking he could ask for help from the occupant upon whose doorstep he perched. He jerked with surprise; in place of his hand sat a large metal hook. He would have sworn a moment ago he still had a hand. In fact he did still have a hand, could feel it, and wiggled his fingers just to prove it. But nothing moved. Pushing back the sleeve of his leather jacket, he saw the black cuff that covered his wrist and to which the metal appendage attached.

Unloosing the straps, he ripped the cuff free, breathing a relieved sigh when his hand uncurled and the hook fell to the floor at his feet. Now what he needed to do was locate Emma and figure out how to break this curse and get back to finding the door of time.

He knocked, waiting a couple of moments before the door opened with a quick inrush of air.

"Swan!" he beamed, overjoyed to have found her so quickly, afraid the curse might have separated them or done something horrific to her. She looked fantastic, dressed a little oddly perhaps, and not quite entirely filled out since her ordeal with Stranger, but her skin did appear to be glowing.

She smiled, drying her hands on a towel. "Hey Babe, how'd it go today?" She stepped back to let him in, then leaned forward to press a kiss to his mouth. That was all the encouragement he needed.

Trapping her with his body, he pushed her against the open door, bumping his nose with hers, breathing her in as his heart thumped thickly against his chest, and consequently hers. She must have felt it, because her own heartbeat leapt to match his, creating a singular identity, an accord he'd only known with her. The air around them began to swell as she responded to his look with a heaviness of her own, and then he lowered his lips to hers, tasting her delectable mouth as her hands cupped the back of his neck.

He would have taken her then and there, his relief was so great, but she pulled back, pushing him away with her palms on his chest. "It's been awhile since I've been greeted so, um, fervently," she teased. "You're lucky Henry isn't home." She pecked his lips one last time and walked away toward a bar with a tall steaming pot on it. The smell was delectable, and his stomach growled in anticipation of the meal that must be near at hand.

"Ahh, Storybrooke, right? I wondered where we were." He ran his hand through his hair, suddenly very glad he'd paid attention when she had been talking about her town, and glanced around at the differences in future accommodations as compared to the past.

She looked at him oddly, but then busied herself with stirring the fragrant contents of the pot. "Well, I hope you haven't forgotten my parents are coming for dinner. They'll be here in just a few minutes, so if you want to change first, you have time." She began humming to herself as she opened a large white box, removing containers from it.

He walked toward her instead. "You don't remember the curse," he said flatly.

She continued with her supper preparations, preoccupied. "Hmmm? Curse? What curse? Wait, this isn't like some bad April-fool's joke you have going with Henry, right?" She stilled her motions, regarding him with a skeptical but playful eye, and he was struck with how wonderful she looked, how healthy and beautiful. He smiled in spite of his worry, and she relaxed, thinking he was only jesting, contentedly going back to her work.

Reaching out to place his left hand on top of hers, a curl of alarm wove through his gut. "Mac. Isobel. The letter. The warning about the curse. You don't recall any of it?"

She looked down at his hand, cocking her head slightly as if she were trying to remember, but her eyes were glazed a bit and he could tell she was thinking about something completely unrelated. "Are you okay? And where's your hook? I thought you didn't like working without it." Her brows were furrowed together and she had spoken softly, stepping out to stand in front of him, watching him worriedly.

"The hook… ah, probably outside the door." He looked toward the entrance, stalling, doing anything to break her troubled gaze. Gods, she didn't remember. Any of it. He inhaled deeply, straining to think of some way to rekindle her memories, but his mind stayed blank, the shock of his situation nauseating him like a swift punch to the stomach.

"Killian?"

Comprehension dawned as soon as his first name left her lips, and he turned back to her, mouth gaping. She thought he was her husband, his future self, not Jones as she had always called him. Gods, what was he supposed to do now? Somehow distinguish himself from himself? How was he going to manage that?

As if the answer had been waiting for the question, Mac's words floated through his mind, _It will test who you are and how well you know yourself_. Perfect. He knew himself very well, didn't he? What he didn't know was who he would become. What had she told him about Killian? His mind began to churn, questions and answers rising up like bubbles to the surface of a pond. Hadn't she said they were different, but that she loved them both? That couldn't be enough, or the curse would have broken earlier when he'd kissed her in the doorway. But then, she wasn't kissing him, she was kissing Killian.

"Swan, it's me, Jones. Don't you remember? You fell through time and landed three hundred years ago. We met and have been journeying to find a way back to your own time. This is the curse trial—you just have to remember. Please, love, for me." He sounded desperate, even to his own ears, his hand tightening on top of hers.

"What are you talking about? Of course I remember meeting you. In the forest, trying to pass yourself off as a blacksmith, working with Cora so you could get revenge on Gold." Her voice had risen and she pulled her hand away from him, her former worry metamorphosing into aggravation.

"No, love, that's how you met the future me." Setting aside her words about revenge for now, he continued, "You met me in the Enchanted Forest, in a tavern. Called me Jones for most of our acquaintance." He tried to keep his tone light, but was failing miserably; she obviously had no memory of their time together. Sorrow weighed down on his heart as surely as elation had lifted it only minutes ago when he'd found her.

"Look, I don't have time for this. I have to finish the soup and put together a salad, and you need to get out of your pirate garb." She turned back to the food preparations, tossing some greens in a large bowl with her lips set in a tight line.

He couldn't tell what he had said to upset her so completely, but she was upset nonetheless. Perhaps he should just go along with it for awhile and see if she might slowly regain her memory. He could only hope.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing her back to his chest and resting his chin on her shoulder. "I apologize, love. We'll talk about it later, aye?" Her rigid spine barely gave way, and he knew the small movement was a grudging acceptance to put it away for now, with no intention of forgetting it completely.

Clothes. He would change his clothes and come back out to dinner and pray to the gods he could pull this off for her sake.

====o0I0o====

He took his time foraging through the bureau and wardrobe, running his fingers through soft fabrics and unusual closures, familiarizing himself with the strange clothing. Finally choosing a soft striped shirt and thick blue trousers, both very comfortable, he heard the knock on the door and the sound of happy voices.

Moving out into the sitting area, he was surprised to see a short, dark-haired woman and a light-haired man holding a baby, both about the same age as Emma. Even though she hadn't specifically mentioned ages, he supposed it was right that her parents were so young. David and Mary Margaret, he thought.

"Ah, Killian! I think you dropped this outside." David handed over the hook and then offered his hand. "How'd it go today?"

Although he wasn't in the habit of thinking of himself as Jones, he did now, especially since they all seemed to think he was someone else. Setting the hook on a table, he took David's hand. "Not sure what you're referring to, mate."

"Oh, didn't you tell me you had to take a group of Japanese tourists out on the Jolly? I just wondered what they thought of it." All eyes turned on him; Mary Margaret's and David's were curious, Emma's… wary.

Right. What the bloody hell were Japanese tourists? "They thought it was a fine day for a sail, enjoyed the fish we caught for lunch," he faked, recalling what she'd told him about his occupation.

"With that storm? Ah, well, leave it to tourists to be excited about anything, right?" David gave him a friendly clap on the back and moved over to his wife's side.

Jones smiled and nodded, glad for the easy out, watching as Emma's shoulders relaxed. Perhaps this wouldn't be as difficult as he thought. Making his way over to Mary Margaret, he took her hand. "Milady," he purred gallantly, bowing deeply.

Mary Margaret looked slightly taken aback, then grinned graciously like the ruler he knew her to be. "Nice to see you too, Killian." She reached up on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek, and he decided he liked the happy couple that seemed a good match for his Swan.

"Hey, did you get that safety report finished for the mayor's office?" Emma asked David, moving away while her parents removed their coats and placed them on the hooks by the door.

"Yeah, turned it in before I left. I know Regina has been anxious to get the construction started."

The conversation continued. A dizzying back and forth of information he couldn't assimilate, of names he didn't always recognize, of vocabulary he couldn't decipher. It seemed that being in a different realm in the future was going to have its challenges. He mostly stayed silent, listening to them talk like the best of mates, which he guessed they were, eventually excusing himself, taking baby Leo with him as he retired to the sitting room when supper was concluded and they were sitting around the table sipping wine.

Leo was a solid little fellow, cheerfully mimicking Jones whenever he smiled. He placed the baby's hand on his scruffy face, watching Leo's features crinkle as he tried to figure out what he was touching. He liked babies, had always liked babies. They were so fresh and new, ready to face the world with open mouths and trusting smiles. There hadn't been loads of opportunities to become acquainted with any in the past several years, but he had known a few when he lived with Mrs. Fritz, what with her desire to help everyone, especially new mothers. He didn't even mind when they cried, imagining to himself that it must be hell to have to depend on people who couldn't understand what you were trying to communicate.

Leo let out a particularly loud squall.

"Hey, Killian, alright over there?" David asked good-naturedly.

"Aye, just getting acquainted."

He knew he'd said something odd by the way no one made a sound. Feeling the dread pool in his feet, he looked over at the table and smiled widely, like his comment was the most natural in the world. "Making sure the little fellow remembered who I was."

David and Mary Margaret nodded in understanding, but a strange look passed over Emma's face, and he knew it hadn't gone unnoticed with her.

Her parents didn't stay much longer, begging off for an early bedtime for Leo, and as Emma closed the door behind them, she turned with a sigh and leaned against it. He was standing in front of her, noting every detail of the curve of her cheek, the worry lines creasing her forehead, the slight frown on her full mouth. And he loved her, even though she didn't remember, he loved her just as she was.

"Alright, spill it," she stated, placing both hands on her hips. Gods, her stance had gone from contemplative to warrior maiden poised for battle, and a wave of desire passed through him like the jab of a hot knife. Except the battle was with him.

"To what do you refer, Swan? I thought the night went swimmingly," he said coolly, hedging the question. He didn't want to fight with her, didn't think that would help their situation, or help her remember him. Or maybe it would…

"You didn't open your mouth most of the night! Just went all broody in the living room. You didn't even talk to David, and you guys are friends. And what's with not wearing your brace?"

"Brace? You mean that uncomfortable leather contraption the hook attached to?" He had removed it even before he had searched for replacement clothing, glad to be rid of the thing.

"I thought you didn't like going around without some type of attachment on your arm," she said dubiously, although her posture said she expected a response.

"What are you bloody talking about, Swan? Why would I wear something over my hand when I'm at home? I understand the whole pirate-with-a-hook thing for work, but…"

"Did you say 'over your hand'?" she interrupted, her face turning white like he'd said something positively frightening.

"Aye, I don't see the problem. It works perfectly fine." He lifted his hand to show her, wiggling his fingers and waving it around.

Walking over to him, she angrily grabbed his wrist. "What is wrong with you? You don't have a hand, lost it to the Dark One all those years ago, over a bean and Milah."

She pulled back the cuff of his shirt, revealing his right wrist, clean-skinned and looking just as it always had. Then something happened, a flash of light or a pop of the air, and suddenly he was staring at a large tattoo with the name Milah stitched across it, and his left hand vanished into thin air.

"Whu… Bloody buggering hell!"

"I think I should be the one saying that." She dropped his wrist and stalked toward their sleeping quarters.

He stood for a moment, stunned, then followed behind her, his eyes unable to decide which arm to keep gaping at.

"Swan, what the bloody hell is Milah's name doing on my arm and where the hell is my left hand?" Apparently there had been a few details she'd left out when sharing his story. Killian was missing a hand? She had fallen in love with half a man? And how had he lost the hand in question? Had he been caught stealing? He wanted to know, no, _needed_ to know who this man was that he was supposed to be impersonating.

She rounded on him, not quite shouting, yet. "You mean you really don't remember. You don't remember three hundred years of plotting revenge to kill the Dark One who'd killed your first love?"

"First love? But that's you," he said slowly, and several conversations with Swan suddenly came to light. Milah. Killian's first love was Milah. Of course. When he had taken the potion, he'd forgotten Swan and fallen for Milah. He lifted his hand to scratch behind his ear, the hot knife of desire morphing into a hot knife of warning pointed right at his heart, ready to gouge it out with the flick of her delicate wrist.

She pursed her lips to the side, watching him suspiciously. "Nice try. But I've been looking at that damned tattoo for years now, watching the way people stare at your hook or your fake hand, and I've never said a word about it. Because I understand. And I do. And now you're telling me you don't remember any of it? It just happened to slip your mind?"

"I told you, you think I'm Killian Jones you met in the forest. But I'm Killian Jones you met in a tavern. And I definitely do not have a tattoo of Milah on my arm. That's him. You have us confused, love," he said gently, reaching out for her, intentionally ignoring his blunt wrist. He dropped his arms when he realized his touch would be most unwelcome at the moment.

"Is this some kind of ploy to tell me you want out? That you're tired of your boring life in Storybrooke and you want adventure? Are you tired of me? of us?" She was breathing heavily, resting for a moment as all her attention focused on him; his answer would determine the course of this conversation, for good or ill.

"What? No! Never! I haven't yet asked you to marry me, but I would. I will…" He trailed off, instantly knowing he had chosen the wrong thing to say by the dark look that passed over her face. Gods, women were difficult, or maybe it was just this one, and although his initial hope was that a little conflict might help her remember, this was quickly moving into uncharted territory.

"You mean you don't remember our wedding?" She was angry now, but he wouldn't deceive her, remembering that the possibility of living a lie was what disgusted her most about this trial.

"Well, no, not exactly," he said quietly, wishing the fox would show up and open a portal at his feet so he could escape her gimlet eye.

"This is unbelievable. YOU are unbelievable. Ruby was right. Just when you think everything is going along perfectly fine, BOOM, you find out your boyfriend is sleeping with someone else." She turned and stomped the rest of the way to their quarters, pulling her shirt over her head and throwing it in a chair before donning another. She stopped, suddenly horrified. "Wait, you're not seeing someone else, are you?"

"Swan, what the bloody hell are you talking about? Just looking at the facts here," he thrust his arm out, "I seem to be the sort of man who has had two loves in his life and was quite devoted to them both. And you ask if there's another woman?"

She visibly relaxed her shoulders, plopping down on the bed, some of the fight going out of her. "Then what is it?"

"I told you. We've been cursed, and you have me confused with the man you married." He stood there impotently, hands, no, hand, restless at his side, wishing he knew what to tell her.

"So let me get this straight. You're not Captain Hook, the Killian Jones I fell in love with in Neverland. You're the Killian Jones I met in a bar?" Her eyes were the color they always turned when she was angry, lightening storm green, and they swept his body, seeing the same man she had married, but who had gone mad overnight.

"Aye. Now we have to assess how to get your memories back," he answered honestly, and moved to sit next to her, careful to give her a little space, knowing she would desire it as she considered all he had told her.

"You said this was a curse, doesn't true love's kiss break all curses?" There was a small measure of hope in her voice, but it was the hope of someone who thinks she might have found a way to mollify the mad person.

"Tried that, love, when I walked in the door this evening. But you're not kissing me. You're kissing him."

She threw her hands up and back down again. "I give up. I don't know what's wrong with you, but you better figure it out soon, buddy. And if you can't, then we're going to see Dr. Whale for a full work-up of your head in case you bumped it on the mast of your ship in that storm today," she fumed, rising and stomping off to a smaller, adjoining room.

He sat on the edge of the bed as though he were standing on the edge of a precipice, staring after her dejectedly. Gods, this was going to be harder than he thought.

====o0I0o====

It was. Day after interminable day, nothing. She had insisted upon a full physical, or so he had learned it was called, including a picture of the inside of his head, tubes and wires and strange beeping sounds connected to him in an attempt to convey what was wrong with him, only to find out he was the picture of health. He went through the motions of daily life as best he could, eventually learning the names of everything and everyone, and Emma seemed to stay content as long as he pretended to be future Killian. But it could be excruciating living the charade.

Emma had told him Henry possessed the heart of the truest believer, so he chanced sharing his and Emma's predicament, hoping to play it off if the lad reacted badly. But the boy said nothing, and looked thoughtful rather than doubtful, and for the first time in weeks Jones felt less than completely mad. Something had interrupted their conversation that day, and he'd never found opportunity to revisit the subject; the boy was preoccupied with his own full life, having recently acquired a driver's license and courting a girl on the other side of town. Besides, he wasn't sure what Henry could actually do in their present circumstances.

He'd been able to piece together that he and Milah had had a love affair, resulting in her leaving her coward husband, finally. And then Rumplestiltskin had become the Dark One, just as Emma had told him that day over breakfast in the tavern, and had appeared to claim a magical bean from them. Milah had provoked him, of course, and lost her heart in the process, followed by Jones's hand.

It was a degrading sort of future, dark and filled with hatred and revenge, so different from the happy pirate life he had been living aboard the Jolly with his crew, and even different from the life he was currently living with Emma by his side. The more time passed, the more he agonized between what he knew his future to be and what he had right in front of him. Even if their situation was some kind of bastardized version of the truth, it wasn't altogether unpleasant, which frightened him more than he cared to admit.

He was slowly acclimating to life with the hook, although not easily, since he hated the blasted thing, hated what it represented—a failed love he struggled to even imagine instigating, a failed life that would result in years of waste. He took to only wearing it when he was working, and leaving his arm uncovered most of the time. Emma said nothing about it, although he'd catch her staring at his blunt-edged wrist, turning away as soon as he noticed, as though she were afraid to bring up the subject and chance another row over it.

Evening became his favorite time of day, when he could forget they were cursed, and lose himself in the simple delight of being with her. They would sit on the couch in the evenings and watch movies about all sorts of things, which was a very efficient way to learn the ways of this realm, and she would let him run his fingers—the fingers of his right hand, since his missing left had never reappeared—through her hair. Their nights were passionate, neither of them mentioning his 'memory loss' as she called it. But it haunted them both, and it haunted their façade of a marriage.

And so the days melded from one to the next.

====o0I0o====

Sitting on the couch one afternoon, flipping through the channels and finding nothing to interest him, a beam of sunlight shone through the kitchen window, drawing his eyes to the pendant of his necklace that sat against his exposed chest. He saw the cross he always wore, but sitting next to it was a ring, his wedding ring he guessed. Not sure why he hadn't noticed it before, he removed it from the chain and looked at it more closely.

It was a simple gold band, thick and well-made. He spun it around slowly, admiring the sheen of the metal, imagining what kind of price it would have fetched back home, when he caught the glint of the inscription on the inside of it.

_An Age Cannot Sate Love_

Although he could agree with the sentiment, especially in light of the future separation inevitable if he and Swan managed to leave this cursed place, he wondered what it meant to Killian, and how it had managed to become inscribed for all time on his wedding band. He wondered if hers matched.

He made a note of checking the next time she left her ring on the windowsill while she washed the dishes, and placed the gold band firmly on the ring finger of his right hand, happy to feel the weight of it where it belonged, a tiny insignia of the love he held for his wife.

He caught her staring at his hand later that evening, a worried frown crossing over her face momentarily, until she hid it behind a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She and Killian must have had a conversation over that ring, then. But damned what Killian did. This was what Jones did, and he wanted to feel the ring on his finger, not forget about it around his neck.

He had his first nightmare that night.

====o0I0o====

Waking in a cold sweat, he forced his eyes open, breathing deeply as his mind registered that he was in their bed, correction, the cursed bed in the cursed Storybrooke. Letting his head sink into the pillow, he reached a hand toward Emma, sighing when his fingers brushed across soft skin, underscoring that he had woken from a mere dream. His heart began returning to normal when he felt her stir.

"Mmmm?" she murmured sleepily. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, love, go back to sleep," he said, staring at the ceiling and keeping his tone light so she wouldn't be alarmed.

"You had a nightmare, didn't you," she stated flatly.

"Aye, but it's nothing. Go back to sleep and we can talk about it over hot chocolate tomorrow," he said gently, taking one of her hands and placing a kiss on top of it.

"What was it about?" She rolled to her side, putting both hands under her head, yawning widely.

He sighed heavily, sorry to have woken her up when she had a busy day at work ahead of her. "I was on board the Jolly Roger, and Milah… Rumplestiltskin was the Dark One… he took her heart… I was… there." He shuddered at the memory as fresh images of her dying in his arms assailed him, along with the painful emotions, feeling as though they belonged half to someone else and half to him.

"Oh, Killian, you're remembering," she said quietly, then tucked herself into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. Her breathing evened out and she fell asleep with the ease of someone who knows their worries will be over soon.

The frightening reality of his situation made itself plain. If he didn't figure out how to make her remember who he was, _he_ was going to remember who Killian was, until his mind joined the mind of his future self with a finality that sealed both their fates. He briefly wondered how much time they had left, and made a special effort to watch for the clock that would countdown their hours remaining.

====o0I0o====

He woke with the dawn as he always had, and turned to face Emma's back, running his hand over her naked stomach, suddenly noticing the thickened swell above the juncture of her thighs. A jolt of pleasure shot through him like a lightening bolt; her normally flat stomach was barely bulging with the beginnings of pregnancy, he was sure of it.

"Swan," he whispered close to her ear, his throat nearly closed with emotion.

"Mmmm? What is it?" She shifted, turning her ear toward him, but not quite waking up all the way.

"We're having a baby, love. Did you know?" He couldn't help himself from running his hand over her body again, lingering over the hardened bump, excited beyond belief at the prospect of having a child with the woman he loved most in the world.

"What? What are you talking about?" She came fully awake, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

"A baby." He smiled again, and his eyes began to swim as the thought of his child growing inside her thrilled him beyond words.

"But I haven't had any morning sickness, and I'm pretty sure I haven't missed a period," she said thoughtfully.

"Look, though." He rubbed her again, letting his hand linger on the soft, slightly stretched skin.

"What do you mean? My belly looks the same as it always does." She looked confused, and turned her eyes to his with a questioning look.

"No, love, look, there's a bump, a baby bump," he said happily. Even though they were cursed, a new resolve to rescue the three of them from this bloody situation welled up with the same fervency as his excitement over the baby.

"But I can't be." She jumped up and ran to the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a definitive slam.

He followed more slowly, wondering what he'd done this time.

She emerged a few minutes later. "No, I'm not," she said, holding a thin white stick in front of his face. "See? How could you get my hopes up like that?" She looked crushed, on the verge of tears, and he opened his arms to hold her. But she brushed him aside, grabbing a tank top from the chair and pulling it over her head, donning a pair of flannel trousers that slid over their growing baby and mostly hid it from view, before leaving.

He didn't know what the stick had indicated, but the broken expression on her face had told him everything, and he suddenly hated himself for seeing what she couldn't. She was carrying _his_ child, not Killian's.

Mac's warning echoed through his mind as it became clear what their time constraint was—the birth of their child.

* * *

**A/N So I didn't go into Jones-meets-the-modern-world because I think that's been done in other fics, and their authors have handled it better than I ever could. I hope you all don't mind! **

**To one guest reviewer: I don't think Emma has contemplated staying in the past-at least I don't remember writing that. If I did, pop me a PM and let me know. And I imagine Emma IS thinking about Henry. After all, I don't give an exhaustive account of her thoughts. But the main reason I've left him out is because I didn't think I could write him in without interrupting flow. It's my own failings as a writer-I'm still a newbie. If I knew how to do it, I would.**


	26. Torn in Two

**Thanks to Commandante Theresa for a diagnosis for poor Killian/Jones. Check out her stories if you want some fun CS adventure!**

**Beta-read by the clever lethemoirai.**

* * *

Chapter 26: Torn in Two

* * *

The water lapped against the sides of the Jolly Roger with the regularity of an animal slaking his thirst. Normally the soothing sound could transport him to a place of peaceful calm, but not today. Sitting on a barrel, overlooking the harbor with a bottle of rum in his hand, Jones stared at the murky water. What he needed was to stare at the limitless ocean, not the harbor's walls, but he couldn't leave the ship today. A couple of loose boards needed to be replaced on deck—to keep his passengers from being injured—and the hallway to the head needed repainting. He could recruit his crew to help, but he wanted to be alone to immerse himself in the work he had always loved when it involved his ship, and forget. Forget that he was failing at convincing Emma of who he was, failing at beating the countdown of time as her belly steadily grew… Failing at keeping the intrusive memories of the future Killian at bay.

The sky was constantly covered in clouds, the weather windy and brisk, as if the gods themselves understood his predicament and sympathized with him. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a deep swig, knowing the libation was unlikely to help, and if anything, would make things worse, but he waited, hoping the dulling of his senses would open up his jumbled mind and give him some kind of idea of what he was supposed to do.

Per Henry's suggestion—when he'd mentioned his concerns to the lad once more—he had tried sharing stories with her about their time together. Short though it was, it was full of adventure, and it told the tale of how they'd fallen in love. She listened doubtfully, and even though he tried to conceal what he was doing, the blasted woman knew, could read his intentions across his face and in his tone with the precision of a seer. She would frown as he spoke, and so he found himself mentioning it less and less.

He loved to make her smile, not frown, and if anything made her smile, it was the influx of new memories he received almost daily, or nightly, of a life he'd never lived. He would ask her about different details, and she would confirm them, green eyes eager as she voiced her hope that his real memories would come back and wipe out all the nonsense about the fairies and Nicholas Stranger and Mac and Isobel. And as if his mind were in complete agreement with his wife, he found himself sometimes wishing the same thing.

He had once considered it lucky when he thought he caught her looking at him with eyes he imagined were reserved for her husband. But now he knew it for the curse it truly was. He often felt torn in two, still himself, but not, and as Killian's memories slowly overrode his own, he began to mellow like an aged bottle of rum, no longer filled with the same excitement over a new adventure or a new idea, more patient perhaps. And then he would realize what was happening and he'd quickly go through a catalog of his more recent adventures with Emma, quizzing himself until he was sure he hadn't forgotten their short time together, intentionally recalling that although this life seemed to be real, it was in actuality nothing more than a curse.

The quiet moments of Killian's life with Emma, juxtaposed against the trial of knowing who he was versus who the curse wanted him to be, tormented him until he thought he might burst from pent-up frustration over the entire business. Add to that their growing baby, and he had become 'a ticking time bomb' as he'd heard it called on television, so that most of the time he either acted like an angry Jones, or a resigned Killian.

And if it wasn't for the sight of her beautiful belly steadily growing and stretching, the feel of her silky skin as he pressed his head to the thin barrier that separated him from his child, his head bobbing from the baby's acrobatics and delighting him with the miracle of life, he would have long since given up and just submitted to the curse.

Tipping his head back, the final drop of rum wetting his tongue, he pitched the bottle across the deck with a small sense of satisfaction when it shattered against the railing and fell in tinkling pieces, echoing his thoughts with a particular accuracy.

They had had a fight that morning. It was Saturday and he sat at the kitchen table, to all appearances a man pouring over the books of his small business, but in reality, repeatedly breaking the pencil tip as he wrote, anger cleaving through his embroiled mind at the futility of his situation. He tried to set it aside and focus on the figures in front of him, erasing when he recorded the incorrect tally, trying again and failing, unable to keep his mind on anything except the curse. He had finally given it up for loss, and stared across the room, not seeing the painting or the walls, seeing only that growing child, marking the passage of time.

She had emerged from the bedroom, dressed to go grocery shopping. The sight of their baby pressing through her shirt, keeping her jacket from closing, only further angered him. She was no closer to remembering anything about his life, and he was ever closer to remembering everything about Killian's.

"_What's on your mind?" she asked, looking over his shoulder._

"_Hmmm?" he mumbled, thoughts still a mess._

"_Tic tac toe." She pointed to the corner of his paper._

"_Is that what this is?" he asked absently, looking down at the pencil scratches scrawling across the top of the page._

"_Yeah. Henry taught you." She didn't say, _I guess you don't remember_, but it was written across her face. "But you only play when something's bothering you. So what's up?" _

"_Well, Swan, the whole, pretending-to-be-someone-else-so-your-wife-doesn't-dissolve-into-a-fit-of-rage might be occupying most of my thoughts these days," he snapped._

_The look on her face made him instantly regret what he had just said. It wasn't his intention to fight with her, it was what he had been thinking, and he was usually better at hiding it._

"_Channeling Captain Hook, I see." She grabbed her scarf and whipped it around her neck. "You can be such an ass when you want to. I'm going out. I'll see you later tonight."_

With that, she had gone, an almost desperate desire to escape him evident in the slam of the door behind her. He left soon after, seeking the solace of his ship, hoping for some kind of sign from the gods illuminating what he should do.

Removing himself to his cabin, he stood at the doorway, viewing the order he had always insisted upon in the small space. He took a deep breath, allowing his familiar surroundings to anchor him to the deck—the immutable Jolly Roger—at least he still had her. A fervent desire to sail far away from this accursed place swept through him on the heels of a quick brush of wind, but he wouldn't leave Emma or their child, not while there was still a chance.

Entering the cabin for his tools, he returned topside to begin the process of removing the rotted boards and replacing them. Setting his lever against the edge of the wood, he pried the board up, the heavy nails creaking under the pressure as they reluctantly released their hold. It was upon prying the second board that he noticed the leather-bound book hidden in the small space beneath the upper deck and the ceiling of the crew's quarters. Curious, he set the board down at his feet and removed the tome.

Opening the cover, he was astonished to see his name jump off the page.

_To Killian Jones._

_If you want to understand why you feel as though half your heart is missing._

He started. The writing was undoubtedly his, the same long and sure strokes of his own penmanship swirling across the page, and his project was quickly set aside as he anticipated what he might find in the journal of sorts.

_If you are reading this, you have likely forgotten Emma Swan, a light-haired beauty with charming green eyes who unequivocally stole your heart when you weren't looking, who made you proud to be called Mrs. Fritz's son, who saw you as the hero she insisted you were. This is a record of our adventures._

He sank to the floor of the deck in disbelief, his heart hammering in his chest as he shifted until he could lean against the railing. If his thoughts had been a jumbled mess before, they became pinpoint clear as he began reading an account of all that had befallen them, smiling at the accuracy of the sentiments, comforted by the thought that though he had begun to question what was reality and what was a curse, everything he remembered as Jones had indeed occurred, recorded in his own hand.

And then he came to the part he didn't recognize.

_And now she's gone. I retired the night of our disagreement to the luxurious bed in Ian MacRannoch's home, and woke the following morning sleeping on a pallet in the Enchanted Forest, not far from the hidden cave of Alistair Astley, clutching the small bottle of the memory potion, wondering if everything I had known over the past few weeks had been a mere figment of an overactive imagination, or if I had received a rather serious blow to the head in the process of escaping the dangerous pirates._

_I could hardly believe either was true, for the memories of my fingers entangled in hers, her generous lips smiling at something I'd said, and her fine green eyes glinting with delight haunted my mind and my heart like a ghost wandering the corridors of a beloved home._

_And so I quickly returned to the Jolly Roger, sending one of my crewmen on foot to alert the king's guards to Astley's cave, where the spoils found were eventually redistributed to the people from whom he had stolen, as I would later learn. _

_Within a couple of hours, I had arranged a search party, sending my men in several directions toward where I knew the MacRannoch's home to be, hoping to overtake her on foot. Imagine my surprise to discover their home had disappeared, leaving no trace of having ever existed in that part of the forest. No wandering garden paths, no trickling fountain, no pond where I'd had my conversation with the violet-eyed and tiny Isobel. _

_We scattered further, widening our party, finding the waterfall and the lagoon into which it emptied, combing every cubit of the surrounding area and beyond, but her footsteps had vanished with the storm, and Jamison was eventually able to convince me to return to the ship, doing all in his power to allow me to mourn in peace. _

_But I have not been at peace. Returning to our usual harbor town, I have thrown myself into our routine activities, but the cards and the entertainment have done nothing to assuage my burning desire for her, for Emma Swan, and I have become a hull of the man I was when I was with her._

_Milah has attached herself to me and the Jolly, having found the courage to finally renounce her husband and son, devoting herself to nursing me through various states of inebriation. I can't bear to be anything else in her company, for she is a poor substitute for the woman I long for._

_And so I write this, in a moment of clarity, knowing it is only a matter of time before Milah finds the potion and verifies its contents, before she doses me with it and I forget for all time that I ever knew the illustrious Swan. In some ways, I abhor the thought of forgetting a love so strong, but in others, I look forward to the promised extinction of all pain, making the wait ever easier, until we should meet again. _

The words ended there, and he closed the book and stared blankly at his hands covering the leather, not sure what to think. It was then that he realized he was no longer wearing his wedding ring on his finger, and wasn't quite surprised to see that it was once again hanging from his chain, nestled next to the cross he always wore.

====o0I0o====

Things hadn't gotten better that evening. He had come home tired and sore from hauling wood and covered in paint, hungry for a quick supper, to find Emma on the phone. Already upset over finding the journal—not quite understanding its implications, but knowing it only confirmed his bleak future—and noticing his ring and everything that implicated as well, he hung up his jacket while listening to the one-side conversation.

She hung up and looked over at him, distracted. "Domestic dispute. Over at the Allen's. David's meeting me there." She had put on her red jacket, struggling to zip it over their child. "Damn zipper," she said under her breath, finally getting it to close over the swell of her stomach.

"You may as well remove your outer garment, Swan. You're not going," he said tiredly, walking over to the kitchen to warm a can of soup.

"What was that?" she asked as she donned her gloves, brow furrowed as if she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.

"You're not going. You're not going to the house of those blasted people who've been fighting for who knows how long, and for whom drunk and disorderly conduct is most definitely a factor. It's too dangerous…" _for someone in your condition_, he wanted to add, but knew better.

"Ha! You're really telling me what to do? You honestly think your protective-husband bit is going to work when you've been acting like a jerk the past week?"

"Regardless of my troubles," he waved a hand in dismissal, "You're not going, and that's final." He didn't completely understand why he was acting the way he was, she'd been in many difficult situations and handled herself well, but they had always been a team, and this time he was alone, trying for all he was worth to get her to see, without any results, and he was at his wits end, thoroughly finished with this trial.

"Is it?" she challenged, pausing with her hand on the door.

He glared at her, pulling a pot off the rack and lowering it to the stove noisily. "Aye. I'm putting my foot down as the authority of this house. Many things I'll endure, but intentionally endangering yourself for ingrates is folly, and I'll not have you risking yourself in such a manner." His voice had risen as he'd spoken, until the last word had come out in a near-shout.

She winced at his last word, her eyes blinking rapidly in complete disbelief.

"Seriously? Who are you and what did you do with the man I married?" she retorted, leaning forward slightly.

"Well, love, I've told you from the start, I haven't married you yet, and I'm only twenty-five years old, not three hundred twenty-five, lacking the benefit of longevity that my counterpart has had, so forgive me if I seem a bit different," he countered nastily.

"Forgive you if you seem a bit different? That's all I've been doing for the past few months!" she shouted. "Do you have any idea how many conversations I've had around town? Everyone is worried about you, including me! I talked to Whale again and he thinks you may have some kind of transient global amnesia, which explains why your memories are coming back, but doesn't explain why you believe in some kind of alternate past. It's as though you were cursed like the rest of Storybrooke and are trying to reconcile two different lives!"

"Is that what you think? That I've been cursed and have two separate lives? Then pray tell, which one do _you_ believe is the real one?" he challenged with a raised brow.

"You have to ask that? I should think it would be obvious." Her knuckles had whitened around the door handle, and he could see she had been struggling as much as he had, maybe more-so, but in a different way. It nearly broke him, some of his venom dissipating.

"You've known me for how long? Four? Five years? And in all that time, have I lied to you?" he asked intently.

"A few times, but not… recently." Her words faltered as she realized what he was asking.

"Am I lying now?"

She paused, studying him. "Well no, not exactly, but that just means you really believe what you're telling me, not that it's necessarily true." He saw a hint of doubt pass over her face and it gave him a very small measure of hope.

"So then I believe a complete fabrication?"

"Yeah, I'd say so," she said seriously, and he could see the small measure of hope in her own face, as if she believed he was finally coming to his senses.

He laughed bitterly as his own was extinguished.

"What?" she asked, still angry.

"I'm not the one that believes the complete fabrication, love. It's you."

With that, he turned away to pull a can out of the cabinet, his back burning under her gaze, shoulders flinching when the door slammed behind her as she left to go to work.

====o0I0o====

He sat on the couch flipping through the channels, staring at the flashing screen in a daze, wondering why he had felt it necessary to instigate a fight with the woman he loved, when she was no more to blame for the situation than he was. And to make matters worse, she was late. Really late. He walked over to the table where he'd left his phone, wondering why she hadn't called, and realized he had ten missed messages. Cursing himself, he turned his phone off silent and checked who had called.

_Killian! This is David, Emma's been shot! We're at the hospital. Damn it! Answer the phone!_

Shocked, he gave a quick glance to see that every call was from David and a few from Mary Margaret. Grabbing his coat, he flew out of the apartment and jumped on his motorcycle—the bike having sat unused in front of their apartment until he had woken one morning with the knowledge of how to ride it—and drove straight for the hospital.

Pulling open the wide glass doors, he ran to the information desk, demanding the nurse on duty point him toward Emma Jones.

"She's in surgery, just that way…"

He took off in the direction she pointed before she could finish, following the signs toward the surgical area, unable to think… Emma… unable to think… the baby… unable to think… no one could see the baby except him… unable to think… she's got to be alright

His heart felt too big for his chest, ready to burst for more reasons than just the exercise, and as he was sprinting through a waiting area, David suddenly appeared in front of him, stopping him with both hands on his shoulders. "Killian, wait."

Jones stepped back a pace, holding David firmly with his gaze. "Look, mate, I know what you're trying to do, but I have to get in there to see her."

"She hasn't come out of surgery yet, and we have to wait," David stated firmly but gently.

"Wait? Step aside, mate, and let me pass before I put my fist through your face," he ordered, his ceaseless supply of anger replacing the worry and surfacing in a flash.

David stepped aside.

Jones moved forward, ready to storm the room where she was being held, when a delicate hand on his arm stopped him. Looking down, he saw Mary Margaret's watery eyes begging him to calm down.

He hesitated, looking back at David, seeing the grief and guilt reflected in the man's sorrowful gaze in being unable to protect his daughter. He knew his own eyes must mirror David's, unable to mask his culpability in instigating the fight in the first place before she left. Running a hand through his hair, doing something, anything with his hands, he realized that storming the hospital room might be unwise.

"What happened?" he asked anxiously, grateful for Mary Margaret's steadying touch anchoring him to the floor and keeping him from flying apart in a thousand pieces.

David sat down heavily in a nearby chair, hands clenched between his knees, speaking haltingly as he stared at the cold tile floor. "We answered the call, per protocol. I went in first, and she followed behind. Allen was drunk, had his wife by the hair and a gun pointed at her head. She was pleading with him, asking him to forgive her for something… I can't remember what, and when we walked in, I began talking him down. Trying to distract him from the gun... It was working. He started to relax his hold on his wife, but then he saw Emma move and started shouting something crazy about her being pregnant and how his wife was pregnant by another man and he became agitated again, starting waving the gun around. Th-The phone rang, startled us all and he flinched, pulling the trigger, and she fell… I didn't protect her…"

David's head fell into his upturned palms as he began crying. Mary Margaret quietly moved next to him, cradling him in her arms as she added her own tears to the top of her husband's head.

Jones felt his knees begin to buckle as he pictured the scene in the house, the wild man's gun going off and hitting Emma, her body flailing backward from the impact like he'd seen in so many movies. Scenes of her limp body leaning against his thigh while he desperately tried to stop the bleeding from another gunshot wound flashed through his mind, and it took all his power to focus on the one thing he had to know.

He leaned over his father-in-law and shook him. "David, mate, you have to tell me. How bad is it? Where was she sh-shot?" His throat constricted with the words, rebelling against the image of her life's blood flowing out of her body…

David looked up through red-rimmed eyes. "In the upper thigh. It's bad, Killian. She… she lost a lot of blood."

Jones sank into a chair, half relieved that she hadn't been wounded in the belly, terrified she could bleed to death, lose her life and their child's all because of his recklessness in pushing her to accept something before she was ready. It didn't matter how much he had to endure for her sake, _Just please, gods, let her be safe._

"How long?" he asked, turning to Mary Margaret. At her perplexed expression, he clarified, "How long has she been in surgery? When will they be done?"

"She's been in there for about an hour." Mary Margaret turned back to David, rubbing his half-bent back with the sure strokes of a mother comforting her child. He knew she was barely holding it together, but her delicate features had a firmness to them that clearly depicted from whom Emma had received her mettle.

Jones nodded once, jaw clenching, a most effective remedy for pain. Well, not really, but it did distract from the way his heart felt like it had exploded and lodged itself in different parts of his veins until he thought his blood had been obstructed all over his body, pooling in viscous puddles of shimmering red.

It was several more hours before they were informed she had been moved to the Intensive Care Unit, and Jones realized that Allen had become agitated _after_ he had seen Emma's pregnant belly.

====o0I0o====

His heartbeat matched the steady beeping of the machine above her bed, having dragged itself back into the cavity of his chest with a searing pain that had finally faded to numbness once he had known she would be alright. David and Mary Margaret had gone home already, assured of Emma's stable condition, to get some rest and relieve the baby-sitter. Emma had clear tubes attached to her nose and her arm, and she was as white as the sheet that covered her. He sat in an uncomfortable chair—not that he cared—by her side, watching her, memorizing her while he still knew who she was to him.

He placed a hand on her swollen belly, hoping to reassure the little lad or lass within, taking comfort in the warm solidness of the hard flesh. He felt a strong kick against his hand, and he broke into tears, leaning his head on the mattress next to her, keeping track of that tiny vibration of life within her, so grateful to the gods for at least sparing their child, knowing that he or she might be spared for only a short time more.

Awaking sometime later to the feeling of her hand running through his hair, he looked up, thinking she was the most beautiful he had ever seen her. Beautiful and alive, his first love, his only love, Emma Swan, the woman who had unequivocally stolen his heart when he wasn't looking… She must have read his thoughts because she smiled tiredly.

"Hey babe," she said, voice scratchy from disuse.

He couldn't speak yet, but lowered the side of the bed and moved closer to her, keeping his hand firmly planted on their child, afraid to let go as what he needed to do became as clear as the water over shallow reefs. Placing his forehead on her shoulder, he took a deep breath.

"Emma." He looked up at her, close enough to lean forward and kiss her delicate mouth, the mouth that had tempted him from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her.

She watched him with a softened gaze, apologizing for the fight without words. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her silent plea, although he knew he was the one who should be apologizing.

"Emma, love. You bore a hole in my chest and hold my heart in your hand. You have the power to crush it or return it at your will."

She cocked her head slightly, her expression saying she wanted to understand what he was trying to say, but not quite following.

"If this is the life you want, if this is the reality you want, I-I'll live this way… forever… just to be by your side," he said quietly but decisively.

Her belly lurched, and their child began to move frantically, kicking against his hand forcefully, making his presence felt. Killian pressed more firmly on her belly, rubbing rhythmically, trying to soothe their baby through the gentle strokes. The tears were falling freely now, and he didn't bother to check them, as he silently said goodbye to their child and to the memories of his time with Emma Swan, knowing all he had to do was give up the fight of trying to remember and let Killian's memories completely overshadow his own.

"What are you talking about?" she asked tentatively.

"Gods, Emma, have you ever felt yourself slipping?" he asked, as he began to let go of his grip on who he was.

She looked at him oddly, then her eyes glazed over as she shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not… sure… what you… mean," she said haltingly.

"Slipping into the person you swore you would never become." With that, he let go completely, floating on a rising tide of Killian's memories, swelling and flooding every part of his mind, drowning out the man she called Jones.

She gasped. "Jones?"

He had been staring at her, his hand resting on that jumping belly that had suddenly stilled at the sound of his surname on her lips, and he began to wonder why his hand had been jumping in the first place.

She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him forward, pressing her lips to his.

====o0I0o====

He was drowning in the memories, too many to process, too many to contemplate. Jamison floated through his mind and Killian watched him die at the hands of an angry client who'd hired them to steal something that turned out to be fake; Milah, his first love, capturing his heart with her feral spirit and commanding personality; Peter Pan insulting him with truths too painful to acknowledge. It went on and on, until he was gasping for air, his mouth filling with a foul liquid, limbs thrashing, the tentacles of the images pulling him in too many directions at once, dragging him under and threatening his very life.

A strong current began passing over his face once he'd clamped his mouth shut, and he recognized the feeling of being pulled, drawn upward toward what he could now see was an anemic light, until his face broke the surface and he was gasping for the precious air filling his lungs.

Emma was kneeling beside him, half-splashed and smiling in relief. "Killian!"

His heart froze in his chest, and unfortunately, a coughing fit overtook him so that he lacked the breath to question her choice of his name just yet.

She dragged him onto the grassy bank of the swamp, landing on her backside with a thump. "You scared me half to death! The curse broke and then you went head first into the water. You were fighting me and I didn't think I'd ever get you out."

He had made it to his knees, his hair dripping in his eyes, and he brushed it off his forehead while looking her over to make sure she wasn't experiencing any residual effects from the curse.

"Looks like we're right where we were when that giant bug started attacking my head," she said as she glanced at their surroundings, then back at him. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

He raised one brow, regarding her doubtfully while his chest rose and fell with deep breaths.

"I know who you are!" she said testily.

"Do you?" he asked hoarsely, but interested, crawling toward her so that he could touch her, hold her, and stop himself from shaking over the near-miss they'd just had.

"Yes, damn it! You're the only man I've ever fallen in love with twice. The man I'd endure hell for as surely as you would for me. The man I'd love in any time, in any place..." He had reached her side and gathered her tightly into his arms, stopping her with a kiss, the simple truth of her words resonating in his gut. It didn't matter to him anymore whether she loved him as Jones or Killian; the only thing that separated him from his future self was life experience. What mattered was that Emma Swan was his first love, his true love, not Milah, and she always would be.

His hands tangled in her glorious hair and he deepened the kiss, his chest bursting for a lack of air for an entirely different reason, caressing the woman he loved with all his heart and everything he could give her.

"Swan, you bloody well just about tortured me in that curse." He pulled back a little to search her face. "Are you alright? The gunshot? You're fully… healed?"

"It wasn't real." She smiled, but then twitched, and a strange look passed over her face. "What the hell?" She unbuttoned her vest and her belly expanded outward like a sigh. He lifted her shirt and placed a hand on the taut skin, their baby kicking against his hand in recognition, and he was quite sure, gratitude.

"I'm pregnant?" she asked, watching his hand move with the baby, before looking into his eyes with her delicate lips parted in wonder.

"Aye, love. We are."

Her eyes were the color of new meadows bathed in sunshine, a leafy green that spoke of new life and lush possibilities taking flight in the brisk wind that began to swirl around them. He held her gaze as the fetid swamp dissolved into a beautiful hillside, covered in fresh strawberries, much like the one he used to visit all those years ago when he was a boy. She smiled again and he wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her into him, the baby pressing into his stomach with the affirmation of life and the reminder to have faith. Perhaps they would find another way.

* * *

_To Maggie: Thank you so much! What high praise! I had another friend review and say I needed to simplify my language, but I'm not sure how to do that (it's not my style), so I'm glad you're enjoying the writing for what it is, and that I could throw a twist you didn't see coming. ;D_

_To Guest who's re-read: I'm so glad it's better the second time through. I can imagine it'd be difficult to read this story over the course of months—very hard to keep track of the details. I'm glad it works!_

_A/N Many of you have mentioned that Emma is written in a way that presents her preference for Jones over her husband Killian. That is NOT my intention, and so it shows a hole in my writing. I intend to rectify this in the following chapter—to balance Emma's feelings so you can see exactly where she stands._

_Thanks to you all for letting me know where your thoughts are… I hear you, and you make writing challenging and fun!_

_Cheers!~DD_


	27. Particle Physics

**Ok, so even though the title might suggest it, I know NOTHING of particle physics. So if you're a rocket scientist, and my conjectures are wrong, you're welcome to share, but remember, I probably won't understand you. ;D**

* * *

Chapter 27: Particle Physics

* * *

"You were worried, weren't you? Admit it," Emma said, watching her steps as she moved down the strawberry covered hillside, her pregnant belly threatening to throw her off-balance if she didn't pay attention. They were hiking toward the grassy valley below, hoping to find a stream where they could replenish their canteens and wash the sticky juice from their fingers.

He raised his brows in an expression of surprise, not quite supplanting the happy grin he'd had since confirming her pregnancy for her.

"Worried? Are you mad? Of course I was worried. It took you long enough to remember." He was walking a little ahead of her, and reached back a hand to guide her around a small rocky patch, the clink of the swords accompanying his move, as he'd insisted on carrying some of her supplies as well. _Can't have you straining yourself, love. Not in your condition, _he'd said.

"Yeah, well, it took you long enough to decide it didn't matter to you whether or not we were cursed." She took his hand, allowing him to take some of her weight as she stepped, using him for balance.

"What the devil are you talking about, Swan?" he asked, "I'm not the one who needed to remember we _were_ cursed," he said blithely, as if he had been the one who was right all along, and had finally swooped in to save the day.

She pursed her lips and sighed heavily, shaking her head. "The curse tested who we are, right? Well, how was it that I finally remembered? It was when you decided that maybe Killian wasn't so bad after all, and that living out his life with me wasn't all that terrible."

He tilted his head to the side, mouth open and about to respond, but he closed it abruptly, and she could see that he had swallowed whatever retort had been on the tip of his tongue. "I thought _you_ were the one who didn't want to live the lie, Swan," he said thoughtfully.

"But I wasn't. I was living my life with my husband. You. In any time."

Her words must have struck something within him and he nodded with understanding. "Ah, so my hating _his_ past, or my future, was what was really keeping us from breaking the curse."

"Exactly!" she said triumphantly, smiling widely. "When you quit fighting it, I could see the curse because I was no longer alone. Who we are together as a team is what makes us unstoppable." The truth of her words rang throughout the lower valley, and he stopped walking and turned around, her smile faltering as she took in his rueful expression.

"I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner, love."

"Hey, it's alright. You didn't know," she said quietly, trying to soften the truth, not having begun the conversation with the intention of blaming him.

He looked down, shrugging his shoulders as he fiddled with the handle of his sword. "No, listen. You need to understand… I don't want Milah, or the revenge associated with her, not when I've had a taste of what could be with you. And I've been frustrated about that. Accepting my future self means accepting that I must have taken that potion and forgotten all about you, about this…" He placed his hand on her belly and kissed her gently.

"I don't want that for you either. I hate that you have regrets about the life you're destined to live. And whereas I think you can see that it all works out—you still get your happy ending with me—," she smiled sadly, "I know how tough it is to live with regret. Henry…" She paused, as an image of her son came before her eyes, of giving him up for adoption before she'd even given herself the chance to hold him and see what color his eyes were.

Killian's expression softened as he took in her distress, and he stepped closer as if to embrace her, but she moved back slightly, shaking her head and brusquely wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. She needed him to understand what she was trying to say.

"And I don't love you any less for making that choice; if anything, I love you more for it. Now that I know, Killian, now that I know we met before Milah, now that I know what you had to give up in order to meet me in the future, I… I'm the one who doesn't deserve… this."

She looked down at her feet, her eyes alighting on her swollen belly instead, when she felt his finger on her chin as he lifted her face to his.

"He really loves you." He smiled and chuckled lightly, eyes falling to her lips. "I daresay as much as I do."

"I know," she answered, no longer torn between her love for the same man in different times.

"No, you don't." He looked away, taking her hand in his before looking back with cloudless eyes. "I've had a glimpse into his mind for the better part of half a year, and he really loves you, against all odds. It's rather amazing given everything he's been through. He didn't think he deserved to find love again, that his past had been too dark, that he'd hurt too many people. When Regina told him, 'Villains don't get happy endings,' he hoped she wasn't right, but that plays through his mind whenever he's worried about something. And he's most afraid of losing you."

"But he hasn't lost me... He won't lose me," she clarified, trying to remind herself that even though they were speaking as though her husband were a different person, he really was standing in front of her, with an incredibly unique perspective.

"No, he hasn't." He paused to brush a lock of hair over her shoulder. "_I_ haven't… yet." He held her eyes a moment more, lost in thought as the specter of the memory potion hung over them, combing their faces along with a sudden gust of an icy wind.

Glancing back at the sky, he focused on a flurry of clouds gathering in the distance before his eyes made a wide sweep of the terrain all around them. He took her hand again and continued down the hill.

"Are you sorry you're not in Storybrooke?" he asked.

"Honestly? Yes. I miss my family and friends, and it was nice to be back, even if briefly." The grass rustled next to her, and she looked down to see a squirrel biting into the red flesh of one of the strawberries, stilling instantly into a tiny statue while she passed. "What about you? What do you think of the town where you and I will live out our days?"

"Not bad, Swan. Not bad at all." The corners of his mouth had turned up, and she could see he was remembering something fondly.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Ah well, it's only at first I thought the place a bit dull, especially since you and I weren't exactly getting on." He frowned slightly, and she was careful to let him finish, knowing he didn't intend to sound critical. "But then one day I awakened with the memory of how to operate my motorcycle. Wonderful vessel that. Reminded me of sailing the high seas on a brisk day, wind pressing against my face. I could have thrown you on the back and taken off for new adventures in _your_ world."

"What stopped you?"

He turned to look back at her, blue eyes filled with warmth. "Our child." He said it with a decisiveness that told her he was perfectly fine with his adventure being thwarted for the sake of their baby, that he was more than willing to give up his own desires for the safety of his family.

A burst of love shot through her, landing heavily in her gut and just about halting her steps. What had she done to be lucky enough to have found him, twice? She began tearing up again and swallowed thickly, squeezing his hand tightly as they walked on. "You really are a good man, Killian."

This time his eyes were twinkling. "Sometimes." He inclined his head forward in a mock-bow, then continued. "It's a pleasure to hear you call me by my given name, _Emma_. I was disappointed the first time you called me Jones," he confided honestly but without bitterness. They had reached the bottom of the hill and he turned left, toward the heavy clouds slowly crawling outward with the determined purpose of blotting out the sun.

"I know," she said, remembering how quickly he had hidden that disappointment behind his cocky air.

"And here I thought I was good at keeping my thoughts hidden." He smirked with the air of someone who knows he couldn't conceal anything from her if he tried.

"You're not the only one who's something of an open book," she retorted, grinning.

"Ah, the famous beanstalk line." He tugged her closer to him so they could walk side by side now that they were on level ground.

"You remember that too?"

"I remember everything. At this point, there are no holes in my memory as far as I know, everything that's happened to me, past, present, and future. It's an interesting perspective to be sure. I can see how I've changed over the years…"

"Yeah, especially with regards to patience," she interrupted dryly. "And you're definitely better with the ladies in the future…"

"Hold on a minute, Swan. And what exactly are you implying?!" he asked incredulously but with a fair amount of good humor. "I specifically recall being able to win your heart more than once."

"That may be true," she conceded, "But you have to admit your timing stinks," she finished, thinking of all the times he brought up some touchy subject at the worst possible moments.

Killian's steps slowed and he began laughing, the kind that echoed off the landscape and filled the valley. His mirth was catching and she joined him in it, feeling the kicks of their baby as he or she lazily rolled around a couple of times in pleasant unity with his parents.

====o0I0o====

The clouds blanketed the entire sky with a weight that pressed down on the atmosphere as they hiked along the short grasses and hard-packed dirt. Eventually hearing the sound of running water, they altered their steps to find a small stream happily bubbling nearby. It was flanked on the opposing side by thick trees, currently in the process of losing their leaves. Emma sank to the ground, grateful to drop her pack and rest her weary feet. The wind had been picking up for the past couple of hours, and she could tell they were getting closer to wherever it was the Balgienit lived. She shuddered at the thought.

"Alright there, love?" Killian asked, having noticed her shiver as he handed over her freshly filled canteen.

"Yeah, just a little tired is all."

He looked at her, and she could tell he was sizing up her fatigue, weighing it against a desire to get going. "Well, as far as I reckon, we'll be able to hike another couple of hours or so before we need to set up camp and get a fire going before nightfall. Although if we find any bit of shelter here soon, I'll settle for that. The weather will likely turn before the night is out."

He bent to remove a couple of pieces of jerky from his bag and handed one to her while he took a bite, his eyes carefully scanning the surrounding banks of the water. Having camped with him several times now, she guessed he was looking for any signs of game.

Finishing his snack, he turned back to her with a gentle smile. "Are you well enough to continue?"

She nodded sleepily, suppressing a yawn, but getting up nonetheless.

"Here, give me your pack, I'll carry it for you," he said, extending his hand.

She handed it over without a protest, which she knew would be futile anyway. "At least let me carry the swords. That should make for easier walking at least," she said, mildly frustrated with her body for not having the same stamina she was accustomed to.

"Swan, it's no worries, love. I've got it. Besides, I practically ran from the waterfall to Stranger's compound with both packs and weapons, with nary a break in my stride." He leaned down to give her his hand, pausing to place a soft kiss on her mouth once she was standing.

"Now then, let's on. And help me keep an eye out for a place to rest."

She nodded, and they took off heading downstream, Killian looking contemplative.

"So I've been thinking."

"Have you? What about?" Anything to distract her from her fatigue was welcome.

"About whether or not time is continuing for my future self at the same rate as it is for us. You did say you worried about it, if I remember correctly," he stated.

"Oh?" _That_ peaked her interest.

"Given what we know about particle physics, I think it's safe to say—"

Her mouth dropped open in shock. "Particle physics?! Did you really just say 'particle physics'? Last I checked _that_ wasn't taught in Naval officer classes." She couldn't help her reaction, trying to reconcile that she'd just heard the word 'particle physics' come out of the mouth of a man who had lived all his life in a land with all the modern conveniences of the eighteenth century.

"Television, love. That Netflix is a wonder." He grinned mischievously and winked at her, lifting a hand to began counting off his fingers. "I've watched _The Time Machine_, _Somewhere in Time_, _Time Bandits_, _The Final Countdown_, _The Philadelphia Experiment_, _Back to the Future_—all three, excellent films those, _Prince of Persia_..."

"Are you kidding me? Those are all movies. You can't learn science from movies!" she interrupted in disbelief.

"It's called science fiction, love, and yes, many times the science is quite cutting edge, even if occasionally farfetched. Have you ever seen the documentary about how Star Trek changed the world?" He rose one brow at her, happy to be the one informing her for a change.

"You're a Star Trek fan? Now _that _I never saw coming," she said dryly.

"Not a fan, per se, more like research. I was attempting to absorb everything I could about how time travel might work." He hooked his fingers in his sword belt and his elbow brushed her arm, bringing her awareness to his body once again by that simple touch. She would be more than happy to make camp for the night and let his perpetually warm body cover hers and wipe away the last vestiges of that awful curse.

"And when did you watch all of this? I'm pretty sure you were either with me or at work most of the time."

He glanced at her sheepishly. "Well, you did sleep quite a bit, and I… didn't so much."

She looked at him blankly, then understanding dawned. "Oh that's right. First trimester. I thought I was tired all the time because of worry over you. But now I see."

He turned to her and one corner of his mouth lifted up, blue eyes soft as the cottony clouds blanketing the sky. "Aye, well, worry over me works too." His eyes dropped to her lips, but he didn't kiss her, catching himself and turning forward once more. "And if it makes you feel any better, I watched all the documentaries too."

She smiled, admiring him as she realized the lengths he'd gone to find the answers she sought. More than satisfied, she nodded. "Alright. Continue. What did you learn?"

"Right. As I was saying," he raised a brow and continued, "Given what modern science _conjectures_ about particle physics, no single object can occupy two different spaces at the same time, unless it's a quark—if I remember correctly—but I'm not a quark." He paused, proud of his understanding and giving her a chance to admire his knowledge. She rolled her eyes, but grinned nonetheless.

"I digress. If that's true, then the only Killian Jones that exists is the one currently hiking next to you, in a rather dashing form, if I do say so myself."

"Yeah, so would he." She knocked his arm in playfulness. "So you're saying there's no way you currently exist in the future?"

"I don't see how, since I'm here and I can't be there too."

"That's almost frightening to think." It made sense, though the idea of his not waiting on the other side of the door of time made her heart skip a couple of beats.

"But somewhat reassuring I should imagine."

Frightening and reassuring. Was there such a thing? Wherever he was concerned, she was faced with paradoxes. Yes, it was reassuring to think that Killian from the future wasn't exhausting himself and everyone else trying to find her, but it was frightening to consider the possibility that he wouldn't be there when she returned.

"Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?" she asked, as a sudden gust of wind pressed her hair against her head and then abated, foreshadowing the weather change Killian had mentioned.

"Aye, watched that one too. Excellent movie, explores all the ways one minor change in the timeline can affect everything that follows."

"Not the movie," she rolled her eyes again and shook her head, "But the principle. I've met people here, like Jamison and Milah, and several of your crew members. Don't you think that changes the timeline?"

He reached up to scratch his chin, the raspy sound bringing an image to her mind of an aged professor sitting in a book-lined library sharing his extensive knowledge with his eager pupils. "I don't see how it would affect all that much. Jamison will likely never mention you again if he's convinced you're gone. He'll want to protect me. And Milah, well, I can't imagine her trying to remind me of your impact on my life." He scratched the back of his ear at the mention of the other woman, and Emma could see how uncomfortable the idea made him.

"So I suppose the memory potion really is the answer to putting everything right. And then I return to my own time, pregnant… How the hell am I going to explain that to you? What could possibly make you believe me?" Having voiced it, she realized the worry had been consistently growing since she'd first discovered their baby. The only thing she'd want to do when she returned home would be to reassure herself that the timeline had remained intact, not freak Killian out.

He lifted a brow. "It just so happens that I've been thinking about that. Mac mentioned in his letter that I'd been given a gift. And so I have. Something I was able to take with me out of the curse."

"Wait a minute, I thought everything in the curse was a fabrication and—"

"I did too, but this was rather convincing if I say so myself. Here, I'll show you."

He stopped walking and reached around into an inner pocket in his jacket, removing a small leather-bound book. "Here."

He handed it to her, waiting while she opened the front cover.

_To Killian Jones._

_If you want to understand why you feel as though half your heart is missing._

She looked back at him, surprised. "But this looks like… like _your_ handwriting."

"It is, and it chronicles our journey together up to the point when you left me at Mac's to continue alone. This says," he gestured to the book, "That I woke up in the Enchanted Forest and tried to find you, but never saw you or any evidence that Mac and Isobel or their rather large estate had ever existed. And so I went back to life as I knew it, leaving it up to Milah to dose me with the memory potion."

"That's what she said," Emma corroborated quietly, confused by the timing of it.

"Come again?"

"Milah. When I met her just before you found me at the Piper's compound. She said you were fixated on finding me, so she dosed you with the memory potion and you eventually became hers. I just assumed she was talking about your returning to her after I'd gone back through time."

"So that begs the question, when did this happen? Is what's chronicled in the book an alternate timeline? Or does it not exist at all?"

She shook her head, as there was no way to know the answer.

"Either way, if you give this to me in future, I'll know you're telling the truth. And I was thinking of adding a few lines to it, just to make sure I know I'm the father of our child." He looked off in the distance, and she could tell he really was trying to think of everything that would make her job easier and give his future self the best chance of acceptance before they parted ways.

His head cocked back and then forward abruptly in an exaggerated nod. "Ah right, that reminds me, _The Time Traveler's Wife_. Have me watch _The Time Traveler's Wife_."

"Why that one?"

"Because the heroine gets pregnant by a younger version of her husband, a version who hadn't had a vasectomy, and there's never any question of… in case I'm hard to convince. Although I _should_ understand. Especially if you left for work one morning with a flat stomach and you come home several months gone. There will be no other explanation except the one you give me. But I think it will help. Wait, give me the book, and I'll make a note of it."

He took the book back and pulled a pencil out of the same jacket pocket, noting what he wanted his elder self to know, tongue in cheek as he concentrated on his words. She was almost afraid to interrupt.

"Killian, what happens if I can't bring the book with me?" she asked tentatively.

He stopped scribbling, looking up with an expression that said it had never occurred to him. "Well then, I guess I'm just going to have to trust you."

====o0I0o====

The gathering storm sucked the rapidly rising wind into it as they hiked, whipping their hair around their faces so that Emma constantly had to brush hers aside to see, finally settling on twisting her mane at the base of her neck and tucking it in the collar of her shirt. They had found a small copse in the center of a ring of very large trees, having literally run into the organized plot in such a way as to suggest it had been provided by the land itself. Climbing over the substantial roots to follow Killian through one of the narrow clefts between the trees, Emma sighed as her body relaxed from the noticeable lack of wind; she hadn't realized how much she'd been bracing herself against it.

The ground was covered in leaf litter and varying sizes of branches, that when brushed aside revealed a soft bed of partially decomposed ground that yielded under her body weight and promised a comfortable night's sleep. She inhaled deeply, the earthy smell captured by the close-standing trees of the roughly ten foot square area marking a rich contrast to the cold smell of the air outside the copse.

Killian immediately dropped their gear and grabbed his flint, gathering small twigs to start a quick fire. Although she was tired, she helped by clearing a sleeping area, placing the branches in piles according to size, grateful for the large quantity of firewood, as they'd likely not have to venture out of the protective trees for more.

Having finished with the small chore, Emma stretched her arms upward, twisting and lengthening her spine to remove the kinks from all the walking. Her hips popped along with a couple of spaces between her shoulder blades. She smiled, recalling how much her body sounded like her mother's. Pregnant with Leo, the simple motion of rising from a chair caused all kinds of joint protests in Mary Margaret so that her family had taken to saying Snap, Crackle, Pop every time she moved.

Looking down, she placed her hands on her now-quiet child, probably lulled to sleep by all the hiking. "Well, judging by the size of my belly, I'd say I'm about 7 months along."

He was feeding the fire a steady measure of wood until he had a fair blaze, and didn't look up as he answered. "Actually, we were cursed for five months 2 weeks and four days, so by my calculations you're approximately six months pregnant."

"Six months? Good grief. I hope this baby isn't going to be any bigger than Henry was!" Shaking out her blanket a little more forcefully than she intended, the resulting puff of wind caused the fire to flatten momentarily. She instantly froze, but relaxed when the flames recovered with even more enthusiasm than before.

"Why? How big was Henry?" he asked, not having noticed that she'd almost inadvertently thwarted all his hard work as he emptied a couple of tins into the pan he'd removed from his pack. A hot meal was now in the forefront of her mind, and her stomach growled against its neglect.

"Around seven pounds, but the birth wasn't all that bad for a first, or so I've been told."

Killian nodded, glancing up at her with an almost relieved expression.

She plopped down on one of the blankets, ignoring her hunger and patiently waiting while Killian warmed the food, reminiscing about her first child's birth, how she'd been cuffed to the bed and how she had cried as they took him away to give to someone else who could be the mother she couldn't. This baby wouldn't have to experience that. This baby was wanted.

He spooned the warm soup into two mugs and handed one to her along with a spoon. They finished their meal in a weary but comfortable silence, and Killian continued to build the fire until it was quite large, the happy blaze reflecting off the trees in flickering shadows. By the time they removed their bulkier clothing and settled under the blankets, the entire area had warmed to an almost comfortable temperature, a cocoon of heat from the fire held in place by the interlocked bases of the trees.

Killian lay on his back with Emma's head cradled on his shoulder, her arm draped across his chest. He lightly brushed her arm with his hand, lost in thought. She could tell by the way he stared at the nearly bare canopy way above their heads, slightly frowning.

"Hey Babe, what's on your mind?"

"Hmmm?" he asked, turning to her slowly. She watched as his eyes adjusted into focus and landed on her with a smile. "Only how much I'm going to miss this once you go," he said gruffly as he tightened his hold on her.

Pressing her body against his in response, she lifted her head to rest her chin on her hand. "You're going to be really happy about the baby you know," she said with a tiny smile, thinking of how dedicated he had been in trying to get her pregnant.

"Aye," he stated sadly, and her own thoughts followed his down the same path. She wouldn't have to give him up. She would step through the door of time and he'd be on the other side, if everything went according to plan. But he… he would have to wait.

Laying her head back down, her fingers found a stray thread on the edge of the blanket, and she pulled at it absentmindedly, speaking quietly. "You'll wait so long for a second chance at a new life, and you'll get it. And you so wanted to do this with me, and now… now you won't even remember."

"No, I won't," he agreed. "My wife will come home pregnant with a child I won't remember siring. I'll learn that I've forgotten one of the most… thrilling adventures of my life. That I remember a past I'd rather forget, but have forgotten… a past I'd rather remember." His words sounded choked as though he were forcing them past his throat, and she pushed her face against his neck, wanting to touch him, to somehow comfort him in the midst of the impossible situation.

"Bleak. It sounds so bleak, doesn't it," she said, as a tiny tear splashed onto her nose, traveling downward with a tickling sensation.

"Bleak? No, not bleak." Her ears pricked at the change in his voice and he turned toward her, pulling her into his arms so that their baby sat between them, forging and entwining their destinies in the only form of immortality they were likely to ever know. The child kicked forcefully, causing Killian to twitch with surprise. He smiled in reaction, his face full of love and affection. "To know there was some good in my past, that I gave you my love and sacrificed it for your safety and the safety of our child. It's a sacrifice I'd willingly make over and again. For you, love."

His eyes were dark and limitless like the ocean he so loved to sail, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, setting her lips onto his and blinking away her tears, once again asking herself what she'd done to deserve this kind of love from such a remarkable man.

The trees stood in silent witness to a magic that had forged the universe itself, folding in and around in invisible patterns of light and sound, time and matter. Emma fell asleep swathed in her husband's arms, forgetting for one brief moment in time that the journey was far from over.

* * *

_Thank you so much to all you wonderful reviewers who take the time to leave some encouraging words. I love you all! And a special shout out to Commandante Theresa and buffybabe42 for sending extra love my way—you guys make my day. _

_A/N To all my reviewers who think Emma prefers Jones and shouldn't: This is it—my attempt to make all things equal (or all Killians equal). If I failed at the task, then I apologize and completely understand if you sail on to fairer climes. Thanks for sticking with me for as long as you have. The story must go on! Persevero! ;D XXOO ~DD_


	28. A Choice That Isn't a Choice

**Beta-read by Commandante Theresa and probably lethemoirai (who catch all the little areas that need clarification).**

**Per Commandante Theresa's suggestion:**

_Previously, in "An Age Cannot Sate Love": _

_Killian and Emma have been traveling 'in between', a place where time is not constant, in order to reach the door of time and send Emma home. They have passed two of three trials, the most recent having been a curse trial that sent them to Storybrooke, where Emma's pregnancy advanced to about the 6__th__ month. _

_Our two lovebirds have been hiking toward the final trial—the test of faith—to face the Balgienit monster as outlined in the letter they received from Mac and Isobel (both seers and the guardians of 'in between'). All they know is that it lives in a very cold region and that they don't necessarily have to defeat it, but must get the key it possesses if Emma wants to open the door of time. Emma's dagger is made from one of its teeth. _

_The last chapter ended at their having made camp for the night._

* * *

Chapter 28: A Choice That Isn't a Choice

* * *

"Mr. Jones!"

Killian awoke abruptly, his name echoing through his head, he thought perhaps on the lips of the woman beside him, but when he looked down, he saw that she was sleeping soundly on his shoulder, mouth slack. He couldn't remember what he had been dreaming, but there it was, his name reverberating through the air around them, loud enough for him to have opened his eyes with a start.

The initial alarm having abated when no one or nothing presented themselves, he lay back with a quiet sigh. It was the first time in years he had slept past the dawn. He knew it by the way the cold watery light filtered through the trees. The storm must have passed through the night, for where before naked branches fingered their way up to the sky in sharp turns, now soft pillows of snow covered the denuded limbs. Pursing his lips and inhaling, he followed the line of chill air as it filled his lungs, trying to determine what had awakened him so hastily.

His name. He never thought there were so many connotations to a name, but then again, most people didn't get to live the span of several lifetimes. He now had the benefits of a full range of experiences to color his thinking, or perhaps to enhance it if he were being charitable. But all he really felt was a strange confusion. The past he knew was molded into a future he hadn't lived yet. The timeline seemed complete, including Milah, the Crocodile, and Neverland, where he had spent so many years chasing and avoiding Peter Pan, trying to glean any information he could from the man-child. Pan was the Crocodile's father. The elder Killian knew this, had witnessed their deaths, including the Dark One sacrificing his life to kill his father and save Storybrooke.

This was the kind of information that would definitely come in handy _after_ he had taken the memory potion. The kind of information that might save a lot of heartache, that might keep him from picking a fight he was destined to lose with a foe bigger than he ever imagined. Amazing what experience taught us.

And if he drank the potion, he wouldn't remember. Any of it.

His name echoed through the trees again, a woman's voice, this time sounding thick, almost like Isobel's, and with it, the alarm was back, permeating his body, quickening his heart and sending the blood rushing to his limbs. Lifting his head to look around, he noticed the packed snow climbing upward a couple of feet above the interlocking bases of the trees, the resulting insulation accounting for the relatively warm air around them. But there was no sign of any intruders or anything out of place.

Tamping down the frisson of anxiety still resounding throughout his mind without dismissing it altogether, he planted a kiss on Emma's forehead, and easing himself out from under her, hastily rolling the edge of the blanket under her head to replace his shoulder. She didn't even twitch.

He smiled, remembering how tired she'd been the night before, and how she'd still offered her body to him, how much she seemed to need the connection with him as much as he did. He'd heard the term 'one flesh' used several times, and now understood the depth of its meaning; there was no other way to describe it. He'd have to make it a point to propose and make it official.

Hopping around as he tried to don his jacket and shove his legs into his leather trousers as quickly as possible against the chill, he grabbed several sticks from one of the piles Emma had made the evening before, placing them on the embers and blowing them back to life. As soon as the fire was blazing again, he warmed his fingers over the fire and then looked through his pack for some breakfast options.

Two tins knocked together with a clink louder than he would've liked, and Emma turned in her sleep until she was facing the fire. He stilled, watching her a moment to see if she would settle back down. But his eyes were greeted with the sight of the most beautiful green he'd ever seen, a bewitching color, still heavy from sleep.

Her lips curled up slowly, as if savoring the act of smiling. "Hey there, pirate."

There was nothing for it; her lips demanded to be kissed. He obliged by crawling over and taking his time over the job, her arms entwining around his neck as he tried not to wonder if today would be the day they said goodbye.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he said against her mouth, so pleased to taste her as she was in the morning, without the smell of the sickeningly sweet toothpaste she was so fond of.

"What do you say to climbing back in here with me?" she asked invitingly, lashes fluttering.

The temptation was almost too great to resist, but the same sense of alarm wove through him at the thought of lingering any longer than absolutely necessary. Placing a hand against her cheek, he said, "Not that I don't appreciate the offer, but we really should get on."

She must have seen him hesitate, and wasn't willing to give up so easily. "Are you sure, Captain? I can offer you my full and prompt attention." She raised one brow and let the soft skin of her shoulder peek out of the neck of her shirt, drawing his eyes toward her neckline and the memory of what was beneath the dull brown blankets.

He licked his lips, torn, but knew better than to second guess his intuition that had served him quite well over the years, and apparently in the future too. "As tempting, as that sounds, love," he kissed the tip of her already cold nose, "I stand by my previous statement."

"What's going on?" she asked curiously, watching him closely, and he knew she could read the low-level anxiety that still coursed through him.

He breathed a sigh of relief that she didn't seem annoyed by his rejection, part of him still reacting to the curse where he spent several months trying to have a conversation with her that only ended in misunderstandings and upset.

"We need to get you to the door of time as soon as possible. And we have no idea how time runs, or how long the next trial is going to take, or how long it will take us to reach it."

"Ok, but…"

"Swan, we need to get you back through the door safely before the baby is born. Women die in childbirth here, love. Not so much in your time," he said quietly, busying himself with opening the tins.

In just that instant, the creak of a branch echoed through the copse, and a handful of snow landed squarely on her exposed shoulder.

"Bloody hell!" she shouted, laying back and brushing it off as quickly as she could. "That's freaking cold!"

Smiling at her chosen epithet, he stood up to offer his hand.

She threw back the blanket and instantly flinched from the freezing air as it hit her extremely warm legs—she was like a burning furnace now that she was pregnant, and had kept them both pleasantly snug throughout the night. He tossed her the leather trousers that she could barely lace over the base of her belly. She caught them with a thankful smile and put them on quickly while he turned back to preparing their breakfast, continuing the vein of his previous statements.

"And I know myself. Once I've been assured you're in fact carrying my child, I'm going to want to spend as much time as possible with you. If I'm not going to remember the beginning of our pregnancy, at least let me experience the end of it."

His intention was to sound matter-of-fact, but the end of his statement came out in a gruff whisper as it brought to mind the fact that they'd be separating soon. And even knowing that he'd made it a point to memorize every facet of her last night—her body was changing so quickly and he didn't want to miss any of it—didn't help. He wouldn't remember, and it would be as pointless as all those years in Neverland trying to find a way to defeat the next Dark One.

====o0I0o====

They broke camp, tidying the area and scattering the fire and coals, making sure to grab handfuls of snow to put out any embers and stuff their canteens—hopefully it would melt as they hiked. Pushing the snow out of one of the crevices between the trees, he looked out, pausing to savor the view; the ground outside had been transformed to a world of gossamer white. Stepping through gingerly until his feet hit the ground beneath the fluffy coverlet, he reached back to offer Emma a hand.

She shivered as soon as she left the protective area of the copse. "It's really cold. I think I may need a heavier coat. You?"

Before he could respond, two fur-lined parkas appeared at her feet, nearly tripping her with their bulk. Alongside it sat a couple pairs of gloves.

"Oh!" she said as she caught herself on his shoulder, "I forgot how quickly that worked!"

She bent to pick one up before he could, handing it to him before grabbing her own. He bent to retrieve the gloves.

"I must say the quality of the articles produced in this realm is without equal," he said as he dropped their packs to take the overcoat, and admired the supple leather gloves with soft fur interior.

"Yeah, I bet you're trying to think of a way you can somehow come back and forth and peddle the goods you receive," she said teasingly, her green eyes glinting.

"Swan, always so suspicious about my intentions," he quipped, although that had been exactly what he'd been thinking. "I do believe the realm only provides for needs, and I can't imagine my desire for additional income will qualify as a need." He winked, acknowledging her correct assumption with his expression if not his words.

They donned their parkas, and he was happy to see that it had a zipper—some inventions from her world were beyond convenient, and he would miss the little things most of all, like zippers and electric kettles.

Watching her struggle for a second to reach the zipper tab that sat nearly to her knees, he moved in front of her. "Here, love, let me." He tugged up her zipper, lingering for a moment when he came to her burgeoning belly, imagining their child within, snug and warm in the safety of his mother's body, then zipped her up the rest of the way.

She smiled and gave him a peck on the lips. "Thanks, babe. At least the coat is maternity-sized."

He gave her a knowing smirk and leaned closer to speak into her ear. "Oh, I don't know, I kind of like it when something you wear doesn't quite fit, when it's a bit snug in all the right places, when I don't have to use only my imagination to guess what's underneath."

She punched him on the arm but didn't push him away, and he could feel the desire coming off her in waves, making him wish they had more time to explore her newfound insatiability. "How you can even begin to think that way when I'm as big as a moose is beyond me."

"Aye well, maybe not an adult moose, but possibly a baby moo—"

A cold hand clapped over his mouth. "How dare you, Killian Jones! It's bad enough feeling fat and tired all the time. You better only tell me that I'm beautiful and you can't imagine me any other way."

He removed her hand from his mouth and kept hold of it while he used a finger to trace her lips. "You're beautiful and I can't imagine you any other way," he said seriously. Her green eyes lowered, and he realized why he kept noticing them. The icy world reflected light into them, adding a bluish cast to the normally mossy color, causing them to appear more like the color of fresh green grass.

He kissed her with every intention of keeping it light and quick, but she responded hungrily, and before he knew it, he was pressing her back against the tree they'd just come through while she wound her hands in his hair, nipping her way to his ear while he moved down her throat. His body responded like it always did to her, inflamed and ready for another round, and every bit of self-control he had earlier was promptly extinguished when he felt her dragging the zipper of his overcoat down. Once that barrier was gone, she pulled at hers until he could press closer as his mind tried to work out whether or not he could take her against the tree. And then she was moving downward, her cold fingers hooking in the waistband of his leather, fumbling with the laces.

"Mr. Jones!" The voice echoed once again across the snow-covered land, loud enough to startle him away from Emma's neck, and he felt as though a handful of snow had been shoved down his shirt. The chill woke him up instantly, and his hands stilled on the back of her head.

"We have to leave, love. Now." He stepped back and zipped her jacket before she could protest.

"Whu? What?" she asked, eyes hooded with desire.

"You didn't hear it?" He zipped his jacket and bent over to retrieve the gloves that had somehow dropped back to the ground.

"Hear what?"

"Someone calling my name, several times already. We need to leave." He could feel the alarm growing in the pit of his stomach, leaving him feeling slightly nauseated, making him rethink the sardines he'd had for breakfast.

Catching sight of his worry, she nodded and wrapped her sword belt below her waist, letting it out by several notches to fit over the fluffy parka. "Who do you think it is?"

"I love that you don't even question whether or not it's true," he said, once again grateful for the way she believed him so easily. He had gotten so accustomed to not being believed during the curse that it was a nice surprise to have her full trust.

"Of course not. And especially not here," she said, as they began walking toward who knew where or what. "Do you recognize the voice?"

"I'm not sure, but I'd swear it sounds like Isobel."

"Isobel? Do you think she and Mac can come and go in this realm?"

"Once again another question we can't possibly know the answer to. Not now anyway."

She nodded in agreement, picking up her feet as they hiked through the snow. He'd have to keep a sharp eye out for her fatigue; she didn't complain as a rule, and he didn't want her to overstrain herself. There was a fine line between rushing to their next destination and her getting injured from being overtired.

The same thought from earlier flashed through his mind. _What if this is your last day together? _The turmoil he'd been experiencing since acquiring all his elder self's memories came back, and he was once again torn, fighting his desire to keep her by his side as long as possible, but unwilling to allow his wishes to slow their progress. She and the child must be kept safe at all costs.

====o0I0o====

The air became bitterly cold as they trudged across the whitened expanse, a sweeping wind filling the air with small particles of ice that took the breath away and made any talk nearly impossible. Emma saw nothing discernible. The terrain resembled a giant white desert, the sky melting into the ground in an obscure line that seemed to mirror Emma's thoughts with particular accuracy. _Just keep walking_, she told herself over and over, lifting one foot in front of the other, occasionally glancing at Killian to give him a smile so he'd know she was okay, even if she was exhausted and uncomfortable.

She was missing something. As sure as she knew they were heading in the right direction, their feet being drawn forward as if they were on a conveyor, the more convinced she became that there was something she should know, something she'd forgotten, something that might make all this easier. A dream maybe—sitting on the edge of her consciousness, teasing her with the nearness, a memory that would dabble one foot in only to take it out as soon as she turned her attention to the offending appendage.

Having spent the last hour or so staring at her feet, she was surprised when Killian stopped her with a hand across her chest.

"I think we have something, Swan," he shouted.

She stopped and looked up, first at him, then followed his hand pointing forward and a little to the left. A large white lump loomed in the distance, crossing their path like a small hillock, the first landmark they seen in the past few hours. Emma couldn't help but be mildly excited to see some kind of change in the terrain.

She cupped her hand to her mouth and leaned close to his ear. "What do you think it is?"

"I'm not entirely sure, but we'll be there soon enough," he said loudly, then turned and studied her face. He had tiny icicles in his beard and his eyes were bluer than she'd ever seen them. Stepping closely so that their hoods hid their faces from the gusting air, he asked, "Are you alright there, love?"

His concern struck the pit of her belly as the fear of letting him go and his not being on the other side of the door suddenly swamped her, and a keen sense of dread threatened her normal self-resolve. She nodded brusquely, shaking it off. "I'm fine. Let's go. If nothing else, maybe it will offer a break from this wind." She made to move forward, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"It's almost over," he said sadly, holding her gaze with his own.

"I know. I just wish…" she trailed off, wondering if she should speak the words aloud, wondering if it would just give them both false hope.

He bumped her nose with his own and she felt his arm go around her waist, pressing her now-quiet belly against him. "What, love. What is it you wish?"

"I wish I could take you with me. I don't want to lose this. I don't want _you_ to lose this."

"Me neither." He swallowed thickly, and she watched his Adam's apple bob against his throat. She very nearly pressed a kiss there, but grabbed his hand instead, unwilling to delay the inevitable, and they walked hand in hand toward the last test.

====o0I0o====

They approached the formation from the side, a giant blanched cylinder protruding from the ground and into the air about twenty-five feet. As they walked toward what Emma could only assume was the end—maybe they would go around it—she removed a glove and ran a hand over the wall that consisted entirely of hair-like fibers, woven in and around each other in no particular pattern. She stopped a minute, picking at one strand until she could pluck it free, and unable to break it, turned to Killian, noticing his thoughtful expression.

"What do you think it is?" she asked expectantly, keeping her finger underneath the fiber, stepping back so he could look more closely.

Killian removed his glove and fingered the strand, then touched the wall itself. "Silk. Some of the finest I've seen," he stated.

"Silk?" she asked in surprise, "How do you know?"

His response was a wry expression that clearly said: _you really need to ask me that? _

"Ok, pirate, I'm not questioning your knowledge of the finer things, what I'm asking is, how do you think it got here?"

He smiled dismissively, but it belied the edge in his voice. "No clue, love. But I'd say that whoever created this thing was very large indeed."

Their eyes met with identical expressions of unease, and Emma had that same sense of dread she'd felt earlier weave through her like those myriad threads, only this time, she wasn't able to ignore them. Each strand seemed to follow the lines of her veins until every limb was practically screaming with it. Forcing her feet forward, she followed behind him until they had turned the corner to see a large entrance, and hopped over the edge to stand within the gauzy interior.

Emma focused her eyes down the center of the yawning opening, transfixed by the immensity of the hole and trying not to picture what kind of creature might have created it. She turned her head to see that Killian had dropped their packs and was stretching his arms above his head while he moved to one wall, touching and pushing the strands, face filled with a kind of fascinated revulsion.

The light filtered through the waxen threads in shades of pasty white with hints of gray and blue, the colors of dead things, and Emma shivered in spite of the chill air.

"Silk worms!" Killian shouted, hitting the wall with a dull thud before turning to her proudly.

"Silk worms? Do you mean that's what made this thing?"

"Aye, it must be. I couldn't place it right away, and at first I thought I was looking at the largest bolt of silk threads I've ever seen—imagine the price this would fetch, eh?" She rolled her eyes while he raised one of his. "But now I see it's a cocoon of sorts." The momentary excitement left his face almost as quickly as it had manifested, as his words registered simultaneously in both their minds.

"Damn," she said softly, glancing around with new eyes. "That's one helluva big worm."

As a child, Emma had always loved caterpillars and butterflies. The idea of being surrounded by a snug cocoon, a custom-built private home, had brought feelings of wistful desire to her younger self that had never known a home of her own. But now, standing in this giant diaphanous cavern, Emma couldn't shake the feeling of being in a coffin, and she wouldn't have been surprised to see those threads closing in on them and cutting them off from the world for all time.

"I'd say we've found out what our monster is," he said warily, glancing around like she had only a moment ago.

He re-shouldered their packs as they walked further in, Emma falling slightly behind. Her breath quickened in tiny puffs of white that dissipated around her face as she moved, as if her own breath were trying to hide behind her head and avoid whatever awaited them in the heart of that cocoon.

They had been walking down the center of the aisle when he stopped abruptly, causing her to nearly bump into the packs he carried. A loud click reverberated through the structure and a tremor passed through the strands, strong enough to very nearly knock them both off their feet as they grabbed each other for support.

"I think I stepped on something," he said, bending down to one knee once he'd made sure she was steady.

He brushed aside a tangle of thin threads, scooting back slightly to reveal a wide stone plaque. "Looks like another inscription," he said quietly, studying the words.

Bending over his shoulder, she placed a hand on his neck. "What does it say?"

She could tell he spoke clearly, but the words came out almost muffled as the cocoon swallowed the sounds and the silken threads pulsed as he read.

"_Flowing like water that never ends_

_Sands leach out without mend_

_Tear the fabric_

_Rend the cloth_

_The silent orbs spin without a thought,_

_Following innumerable laws not wrought."_

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, standing up straight and lifting the hem of her jacket to massage her lower back. Bending over was not the most comfortable position in her condition.

"I've no idea, love. But I'd venture a guess we're in the right place." He tried smiling at her, but his eyes were serious and sad, and more than a little tense. He turned away, fingers searching for the edges of the stone. "Wait, there's more," he said, holding back more threads to read once again.

"_The person himself determines the degree_

_Hoping to succeed on bended knee_

_And has one hour to find the key."_

"Bloody buggering hell!" he exclaimed. "What do you want to bet that tremor started the clock ticking." He shook his head, dropping both packs to the ground. "Nothing for it. You stay here with our things and I'm going ahead." He pressed a quick kiss to her mouth and was about to run off when she grabbed the back of his parka.

"No way, Jones. Don't even think about it. Every one of these tests was passed by our working together, not splitting up, and there's not a chance in hell I'm letting you out of my sight until I step through that door. Understand?" She hadn't meant to sound so forceful, but there it was, and she was drawing a proverbial line in the sand.

He paused, eyes widening. "Bloody women," he said with a droll shake of his head, but his eyes were glinting, and she could tell he was proud of her. "Alright then, Swan. Here's your cutlass, and I believe you have your dagger. Keep them in your hands and stay close."

He took the lead and she followed behind, their feet making no sound as the strands under her boots yielded like some anti-fatigue mat. At least this stretch of the journey wouldn't be so hard on her feet.

The path angled downward and the walls darkened slightly as the tunnel moved deeper underground, but there was enough of the cocoon above-ground to let in the light through the strands and make for quick and easy travel.

"Mr. Jones, hurry!" The unmistakable voice of Isobel called frantically from deep within the cocoon.

They stopped abruptly, and Emma watched in slow motion as a large rock seemed to dangle above Killian's head for a few moments before deciding to continue its trajectory and plop directly on its target's skull. He stared blankly for a second and then crumpled to the ground in a limp heap.

Emma froze, unable to comprehend what had just happened, staring at her fallen love, blinking wide like an owl that's had a light shined in its eyes.

"No!" she screamed, emptying her hands and rushing forward, too slowly. Why was everything moving so slowly? She reached his side just as the blood was pooling around his head, soaking into the soft silken threads quickly. Too quickly, as if the ghastly wadding couldn't wait to drink in his life's blood.

No time to think. She would draw on the elements around her, the rushing wind outside, the pulsing silken threads, the light, the silk worms… But there was nothing. NOTHING! Nothing accessible. As if everything were dead around her. No elements available for her to siphon the energy to heal him. She looked down at her white hands that had shed their gloves at some point in the last couple of seconds, impotent and useless. Her magic was useless.

"Killian! Killian, can you hear me?" she asked frantically, careful to keep from shaking him or moving his head in any way. She felt their baby kick against her stomach several times, as if trying to wake his or her father, the only way he could.

His eyelids fluttered, and he managed to open them. She nearly screamed again when she saw his blue eyes were clouded and unfocused. "Emma?" he asked weakly, "What happened?"

She exhaled in a rush. "Something hit you on…"

His eyes closed again and his head dropped to the side, his neck muscles too weak to hold it straight.

"No, no, no. You can't! You can't!" she cried. He couldn't die now. She couldn't lose him now! Throwing herself over his chest, she howled again, almost daring the Balgienit to find her and fight her now, so she could get the key and reverse time and take him up on his offer at Mac's when he wanted her to run away with him, forsaking her family. What good was her life without him in it? If he died now, she wouldn't meet him in the future and it would all be a waste, a big fat damnable waste!

The most acute sense of savage fury pulsed through her veins. Fury. At whoever had sent her here in the first place. At Mac for not adequately explaining the dangers. At Killian for not opening his eyes. The emotion of activation. She needed to be doing something.

But there was nothing to be done. Only sobbing. Beating his chest. Willing him to wake up with every fiber of her being. And just as quickly as the fury overtook her, it left, abandoning her to a grief that would swallow her whole. And all the blood in her body felt like it was spilling out at the same time as his, onto those ashen, coffin-like filaments.

It was then that the faint sound of laughter broke through her noisy tears. Startled, she looked up to see a man cloaked in black approaching her.

"Miss Swan! Lovely to see you again."

It wasn't until he had spoken that she recognized the voice and saw the pug-like wrinkled face through her watery eyes. Zoso. She blinked rapidly, the wizened man looking like a black blight on his surroundings, like a spot of mildew on white grout.

"Can you heal him?" she demanded, getting right to the point as her brain registered that he had mostly likely dropped the rock in the first place and might be unwilling to help.

"There's time for that," he said slowly, waving his hand at the prone figure of her husband.

"Time?! He's bleeding to death, you old fool! Can you help or not?"

"The question, I do believe, Miss Swan, is will _you_ help _me_?" He tented his fingers together, stopping a few feet away and searching her face like they had all the time in the world.

"Yes! I'll help you! Now, you help me with my magic and we can heal him together and I'll do anything you want," she said quickly, all her words tumbling out in a rush. He may have been acting as if time didn't matter, but Killian's pulse was weakening beneath her fingers in inverse proportion to her own heartbeat, as if hers could beat enough for the both of them.

"You can't use magic in here. If the Balgienit could be defeated with magic, any one of us magic-wielding creatures could get the key and meddle in... all sorts of things," he said with a mischievous grin. "Which is why… I needed your hair."

She stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded, trying to place what he had just said. Then it hit her. "Y-you planned this!" she said angrily, clenching her teeth together.

He nodded almost imperceptibly. "A deal, Miss Swan? Would you like to make a deal?" he asked arrogantly, raising his brows and causing the wrinkles in his forehead to crease like waves in the sand.

"Yes, damnit! I'll make a deal. What do you want?" she ordered hastily, leaning forward over Killian's body, as if she could protect him from the creepy old man.

"I want the key to the door of time. You and he will acquire it and turn it over to me. I can't rightly defeat the monster without magic, so you will do it for me, young and strong as you are, even in your condition," he gestured coolly to her belly, "And in return, I'll give you the true love potion that will close his wound right up."

"But if I give you the key…"

"Then you won't be going through the door. I will." He smiled triumphantly, looking as though he'd thought of everything, gaining a strand of her hair always with the intention of orchestrating this event. She glanced upward, seeing the indentation where he'd tucked his body in the silk, wondering belatedly how long he'd waited for them.

"How do you know I won't double cross you?" she asked, buying time, time Killian didn't have. But she needed to know all the terms and conditions.

"Because as soon as you step through the door, I'll find him and extinguish him," he stated seriously, and she knew from the experience of dealing with such characters, that he was more than capable.

Think. Think. Emma needed to think, but she didn't have time to think, and her thoughts felt like they were slogging through the muck of the swamp they'd traversed months ago. If she gave the key to Zoso, she'd be stuck in this time forever; she'd never see her son again, never see her parents, or her friends, or her life… And if Killian died here, she definitely wouldn't meet him in the future.

"Give me the potion."

"So we have a deal?" He clasped his hands in glee. "Excellent!"

He handed her the tiny bottle, the pink DNA strand glowing in her hand. She put it up against Killian's lips and poured it into his mouth. And waited. Everything slowed to the span of a heartbeat, the same as it had when the rock was bearing down on his head, a vision she knew she'd be reliving over and over in her nightmares.

A few interminable seconds later, he opened his eyes, and she watched his blood reverse direction until the area beneath his head was completely clean, as though it had never been touched by the thick red substance.

"Emma!"

And her heart beat freely once more.

"What happened? Why are you crying?" Killian looked down, as if only just noticing that he was on the ground, his brow furrowing as he sat up, confused.

She looked up to address Zoso, but he was gone, the slight vibration in the cocoon threads telling her that he was now somewhere near the entrance. She had no idea where he might hide out while he waited, but she supposed he had his methods.

"We have to go," she said, brushing the tears away and getting up, feeling a whole mixture of things. Mainly hatred, she hated when choices were made for her. Her entire childhood was made up of someone making choices for her, and it was one of the reasons she had run away from the system at such an early age. Adulthood had taught her that we always make a choice even when we think we don't have one, but in this case, the alternative was simply inconceivable—there had been no question about saving his life. She simply had to, no matter the cost.

"Swan, what is it, love?" He tried to stop her, but she pulled away, walking quickly, and he had to trot to catch up with her.

"The Dark One threw a rock at your head and you were bleeding out," she said tersely, pushing aside her feelings, not knowing how much time they had left to get the key.

"The Dark One was here? Where did he go?" He turned toward the entrance, sounding bewildered, and she realized she hadn't told him what she had exchanged for the memory potion all those months ago when the Dark One had accosted her on the way to Mac and Isobel's.

"Long story," she said brusquely. "In a nutshell, I traded one of my hairs for the memory potion. He entwined it with one of yours—I imagine he took it when he was impersonating Gavin aboard your ship—and created a true love potion. Then he waited for us here, threw a rock at your head, knowing it would fatally wound you, that I couldn't use magic to heal you, then used the potion as leverage to get the key. The potion healed your wound." Her words were flat, her emotions anything but as she failed at keeping the implications of what had just happened from assaulting her.

"Come again?" he asked, slowing a bit, and she was forced to slow down with him, if for no other reason than to catch her breath, even though she wanted to run and scream and shake her fists at this entire experience for putting them through this kind of hell.

"I made another deal with the Dark One. Your life for the key," she clarified in exasperation, angry that she'd been backed into a corner, that she hadn't seen it coming, being so distracted at the time with how to maintain the timeline.

His eyes got very wide. "My life? For the key? But then, how are you…"

"Exactly," she snapped. "All this was for nothing. Our lives being in danger, the tests, everything… and I don't go home to you or Henry or my family." She stopped walking, turning aside to blink away the tears that were forming in her already swollen eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with the enormity of the task before her, the amount of time to do it in, and the fact that none of it mattered.

His arms encircled her, his hands pressed her head to his shoulder, his cheek rested on her hair; a sequence of actions that calmed her with each successive touch. Killian Jones, always there when she needed him, the only man to consistently stand by her side in any and all situations. And she didn't want him anywhere else.

"I wouldn't say it was all for nothing, love," he said quietly, tugging her closer.

She had made the right choice, knew it as sure as she somehow knew everything would work out in the end. Love didn't choose its own comfort over the life of another. Love was a daily choice to put one's own desires behind the needs of another. And if there was nothing else true in this world or this time, it was unequivocally true that she loved Killian Jones.

She nodded briefly and brushed her hands over her face to wipe away the wetness that had already turned her cheeks to ice. There was a silver lining here, and she would force herself to focus on it. And who said she never had to see her family again?

"Come on, pirate. We have a key to hand over and a whole life ahead of us. What do you think of settling down in Neverland for a spell?"

* * *

_A/N Zoso is the Dark One before Rumple, and first appeared in this story on KJ's ship as Gavin, a new crewman who sparred with Emma when they were on their way to find the seer. Emma and Jones left the ship, were abducted by pirates, escaped, and then traveled to the opal-embedded cave that would take them to the seer. Zoso knew Emma was in the wrong time because of the "ripples" in time and had been looking for her. He knew she would want a memory potion to maintain the timeline and made a deal with her for a strand of her hair in exchange. Emma was released and she and Jones continued on toward Mac's and Isobel's._

_Alright, everyone, the next chapter brings us to the fearsome trial with the Balgienit! Thanks so much for all the great reviews—you guys are the best! And much love to all of you who've been with me from the beginning, reviewing as we go._

_To psymplemind: Rarely does anyone who finds a story in its 27__th__ chapter take the time to review each one. It's been my pleasure to relive my story through your thoughts. Thanks so much for all your kind words of encouragement, and for letting me know how the story reads all in one go. (Ditto for Light Ignites.) Much love to you, my friend!_

_I don't know when the next update will be posted (very busy time of year, that's why the long chapter)—but I promise to do another flashback/reminder at the beginning so you all know where we are. Happy Harvestime! ~DD_


	29. The Face of Despair

__Beta-read by the clever lethemoirai and the imaginative Commandante Theresa.__

_Previously, in "An Age Cannot Sate Love":_

_Emma and Killian have traveled through the barren, snow-filled landscape toward the final test of faith, and have discovered a large cocoon of silk threads, the product of silk worms. Entering one end of the cocoon, they find an inscription:_

Flowing like water that never ends

Sands leach out without mend

Tear the fabric

Rend the cloth

The silent orbs spin without a thought,

Following innumerable laws not wrought.

The person himself determines the degree

Hoping to succeed on bended knee

And has one hour to find the key.

_The countdown has begun, but before they get much further into the seemingly endless cocoon, Zoso (the Dark One before Rumple), hiding in between the strong silken threads, drops a large rock on Killian's head, fatally wounding him. Magic doesn't work in the Balgienit's lair, and so Emma makes a deal with Zoso: she will give him the key to the door of time in exchange for the true love potion he'd made with hers and Killian's hairs. The potion heals Killian, Zoso makes a quick exit, and Emma decides that even though she might not make it through the door to her own time, maybe she and Killian can hide out in Neverland until she can eventually be reunited with her family._

* * *

Chapter 29: The Face of Despair

* * *

"Bloody hell," Killian said in awe, turning his head in every direction as if he couldn't decide what to take in first, finally settling on staring straight ahead.

The cocoon opened onto a steep-sided dirt pit in the ground, roughly a hundred yards deep and housing a giant tree whose branches nearly spanned its width. It was covered in worm nests. The topmost branches barely stuck above the snow-lined edges of the pit, and the nests were comfortably protected from the rushing wind as it swept over the landscape and blew Emma's hood back from her face. Crackling, splitting, and crunching sounds rose from the tree as the millions of writhing worms chewed their way through the leaves, safe in their gauzy refuges.

Emma glanced down at her feet, noting several woven strands of silk leading from the cocoon, each about the diameter of a medium-sized rope, offering a sure but dangerous descent to the bottom of the pit.

"Come on, pirate, there's no time to be enchanted by the view," she said dryly, as she bent down to grab a couple of the lines, pulling on them and testing them for weight.

"Right." He joined her side, taking one of the lines in his hand. "I'll go first, in case…"

He didn't have to finish; she knew what he meant. If she fell or slipped, he would be there to catch her.

"We'll go together," she said with more confidence than she felt, "I've got this." His answering half-smile told her he wasn't sure she did, but would let it lie for the moment.

"Alright. Keep your gloves on. Wrap the line around your wrist before grabbing it with that hand. You can let it out as you move down and use the other hand for balance."

"It won't break?" she asked, the line cutting into her glove.

"Not woven together as they are. Silk is one of the strongest fibers known. Now, allow the line to ride the outside of your body, then let it wrap under the outside foot and over the inside foot. Pinch the line together with your toes." He demonstrated what he meant, and she could see that the friction from his weight and the way the line was caught between his feet effectively created a foothold and consequent relief for his arms. He looked like he could swing like that all day.

She wrapped her wrist like he had, then slowly dropped over the edge, maneuvering awkwardly while trying to avoid lying on her belly and feeling the press of his hand against her bottom for extra support, until she could secure the line around her feet. "Always looking for an excuse…" she teased under her breath, smiling at the wall in front of her since she couldn't exactly wink at him.

"Can you blame a man for trying? You have the loveliest arse, quite possibly my favorite part of your anatomy, Swan," he quipped, patiently waiting while she adjusted the line between her feet and let her body rest on the trapped foot.

"Timing, pirate, timing," she admonished, happy to take her mind off the drop below her feet, the silk strands dangling in the air like fragile tentacles.

But he was back to being serious again. "You can let the rope out as fast or slow as you want, I'll let you set the pace." He watched her for a moment, making sure she had the hang of it, before attending to his own descent.

She moved tentatively at first, slowly letting the line out between her feet and subsequently releasing it from around her wrist. As they descended, the sounds coming from the nests grew in volume until they became ear-splitting, and she felt like a spider dropping into a crystal glass when the rim is stroked with a wet finger. But instead of a single, pure note, these sounds were ugly and menacing, growing and gnawing until she fervently wished her hands were free to cover her ears.

And yet, in the midst of all the noise, the unmistakable sound of a clock ticked the seconds away, as though the tree itself found it necessary to add its own rhythmic heartbeat to the dissonance.

Intentionally ignoring the noise, and concentrating on her careful movements, it took her a minute to realize Killian had been speaking to her.

"What?" she shouted over the din.

"What happens if we fail?" he hollered back, keeping true to his word and making sure to stay just a little below her.

"I don't really know." That wasn't true, but the truth would likely make him angry with her, and she couldn't take that right now, not with the stress of what they had to accomplish in such a short time.

"You mean you didn't work out an alternative plan with the Dark One in case we didn't find the key?" he asked, perplexed.

"No. It didn't occur to me," she said, keeping her eyes on the line. She could almost hear his doubt drowning out the sounds of chewing. "I was a little upset at the time," she offered by way of explanation, nearly wincing with the lie.

"Ah," he said, not buying it, which was just like him. But it was too hard to talk, and he stayed silent. She let him, his question reminding her of the cost of failure.

_Zoso stood over her like a black cloud, holding all the cards, having just told her that he would extinguish her husband with the same emotion as one snuffs a cigarette. It made her angry, but there was no time for anger._

"_And if we fail, and are unable to find the key at all?" she managed to ask through the haze of fear and grief and fury._

"_Your child, Mrs. Jones," he smiled gleefully, like he almost relished their failure. "I want your child. The price of failure is that I get to raise your child as my own, and take back the life I was robbed of all those years ago."_

_No choice at all. They simply couldn't fail and she simply couldn't live without Killian._

"_Give me the potion," she demanded. _

The jolt of Killian's body as he jumped the final few feet startled her from her memory, and she set it aside, refusing to entertain any thoughts about the possibility of failure. The noise had abated somewhat, now that the lowest branches of the tree sat high overhead, and thank God, since the constant munching ate right through her brain, grinding away at her resolve. She couldn't help but wonder if that was their purpose.

.

.

As soon as his feet touched the ground and he could see Emma was safe, Killian circled around, taking in the large cave-like openings at intervals along the sides of the pit.

"Twenty-four," he counted. "Ah, like the hours in a day. Of course," he said, running over to one, seeing the opals embedded in the dirt, reflecting the light through the short tunnel that seemed to be a quick passageway to the next chamber or similar pit. He estimated that they had approximately thirty minutes to find the key and needed to find the most efficient way to use that time. A plan was already forming in his mind.

Emma's feet hit the dirt floor with a dull thud. "How do we decide which one leads to the Balgienit's lair?"

A quick search of another tunnel uncovered a similar short passageway. "Let's split up. Starting here," he pointed to the nearest tunnel, "I'll search the odd-numbered tunnels, you take even, and if it's not the lair, then mark an 'X' in the dirt like this," he used the toe of his boot to mark the earth, "and move onto the next one. And if it is the lair, then return here and wait until the other gets back. We'll face this thing together."

Her eyes were tired, and she nodded once, trying to hide her fear behind a brave smile, but he could see it, plain as day. The watery light from above painted the bones of her face in starkness and shadows, and suddenly he was staring into the skeleton face of his beloved, her flesh eaten away by those munching, crunching creatures squirming only meters above their heads. He shook the feeling away like shaking off a clinging fly, removing a glove to reach up and caress her cheek, more to ensure himself that she was truly alive than trying to comfort her.

She pressed her face into his hand, and the shadow was gone just as quickly as it had descended. Perhaps it was only a trick of the light, but the lingering sense of premonition wouldn't release him, even as she turned to go and he trotted through the first of the tunnels, its ghostly touch raising the hair on the back of his neck.

It was darker in the tunnel than it had been in the pit, understandably so, but the few opals did reflect some of the light from both ends, allowing his eyes to make out the packed dirt floor and walls, so similar to the tunnels they had traversed together on the way to Mac's. Once again, the picture of a giant earthworm slowly eating its way through the earth filled his mind as it had before.

It took less than a minute to run to the other end of the passage, and he could see that it opened into a pit much like the one they had been in, only without the giant tree. He had barely stepped free of the tunnel to check the entire expanse for any traces of the key or the monster, when he felt himself being lifted high into the air by the collar of his heavy jacket. _Bloody hell! _he thought, keeping his arms by his side so he wouldn't fall out of the slipping cloth, and realizing with a growing sense of dread that whatever had him was big. Twisting his head to look behind him, he saw nothing but the furry hood of his overcoat blocking everything from view except what was directly in front of him.

Whatever it was moved him quickly through the frigid air, depositing him on a high dirt shelf, carved into the side of the pit. Its edges were crumbling, and fell away at a steep angle, so that even before he was dropped, he knew he wouldn't be able to escape. His feet barely touched the soft dirt before his overcoat was being pulled upward in short jerks, and he fell beneath it, like a nut falls from its hull.

Whirling around and drawing his sword, he swiped it outward from his body, slicing nothing but air. Huge finger-like projections that extended from the end of a giant tail had already moved out of range, his coat dangling for just a moment before it was released, floating like a piece of paper caught on the wind, until it touched the earth far below in a forgotten heap. The tail retreated slowly, as though it had all the time in the world.

It curled itself around the opening through which he'd been plucked, twisting its body above and around in such a way that it was concealed from anyone who emerged. Having caught only a glimpse of the back of it, the head tucked into one of the curves of the body as though it meant to sleep, while the finger-like projections on the end of the tail picked up several strands of silk from the floor and continued weaving them together, forming a larger piece of cloth, a random, yet beautiful white-washed pattern emerging from the silk threads.

Killian was near the edge of the precipice on which he stood; a slight shift of his weight caused the soft dirt to melt away beneath one of his feet and he caught himself, retreating a few steps until his back hit the cold dirt behind him. He slid down the wall, covering his knees with his arms in an effort to preserve body heat. Of one thing he was sure, he'd need all his strength once Swan entered the room.

====o0I0o====

Emma ran through the first corridor as quickly as she could manage with aching arms and legs, mostly ready for all of this to be over. _Not yet. Just hold on a little longer_, she told herself, realizing that it would end soon enough, her fate decided in less than an hour.

The tunnel opened onto another dirt-lined pit exactly like the first, the same large openings at the base that she could only hope they wouldn't have to search, a giant tree in the middle of it, the same cacophonous sounds of crackling and munching, creaking and tearing, penetrating her mind like Nicholas Stranger's pipe, threatening to rob her, of what, she couldn't be sure.

Seeing nothing resembling the Balgienit, she was about to turn around and run back through, when Killian emerged from the tunnel next to hers. He turned and winked at her, then ducked back through his tunnel, with the air of a man playing tag. She smiled and returned down her own, marking a '2X' at the entrance, noting the '1X' at his, before entering the fourth.

The fourth tunnel also opened into a tree-filled pit like the first, causing her to wonder if it was the same. She marked an 'O' on the ground in front of it, and would check for it if the next tunnel proved to end similarly.

Killian came to a skid out of the next tunnel. "Swan," he said cheekily, "Fancy meeting you here. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were following me," he smirked, then turned away before she could answer.

There was no time for an answer anyway, but at least he was distracting, in the best kind of way. Running back through her tunnel, she marked a '4X', noted his '3X' and entered the sixth tunnel. It ended the same. Drawing a line where she stood to mark her place, she ran toward the opening she thought she'd come through before, noting the 'O' on the ground there.

Two pits. Two trees. Okay then, she was somehow moving back and forth between the same two spaces. That made things easier. Eventually one of the openings had to lead to the lair, right?

Killian burst from the nearest tunnel, nearly running into her as she made her way back to the one marked with the line. "Bloody hell, Swan, what's the matter with you?" he asked, brow furrowed in disgust and angrily stopping just short of her.

She paused in a wide-eyed startle, unable to do anything but gape at him. His change in attitude was so abrupt and his features so cloudy that she stepped back, suddenly feeling like she was staring into the face of the dangerous Captain Hook she'd heard so much about, but had never been able to imagine in the kind-hearted man she loved.

"Killian?"

Even to her own ears, her voice sounded like the frightened little girl she'd once been. And all at once, the sounds of the ravenous, writhing hordes of worms broke through the walls of her mind, steadily chewing all other thoughts, robbing her of the logic she'd been using to distract herself from the impossibility of the task before her. Hopelessness and despair replaced reason and purpose, and her shoulders slumped, as if unable to bear the weight of her chest any longer.

For standing before her was a man who was most definitely not Killian, or at least, not the Killian she had arrived with. This Killian, and the others she realized now, was dressed in leather like always, no furry overcoat or gloves to be seen, and the air was simply too cold to travel the tunnels any other way.

And the scar on his cheek, that she'd lovingly kissed more times than she could count, was on the other side of his face.

====o0I0o====

Mirror images. Once again she was dealing with a mirror image. But not of Graham. Of Killian, _her_ Killian. And if they were anything like the mirror-images of the guards in the Piper's compound, then they were under the control of something else.

"Damn-it!" she cried loudly and tersely to the opal-embedded dirt wall, having fled the other Killian as quickly as her legs would carry her.

What now? Where was her Killian? Was he still searching the tunnels like they had planned? If he wasn't, did that mean she had to check his tunnels too? Was she going to have search throughout this whole accursed place without his help? Had he abandoned her like everyone else managed to do at some point in her life?

Roughly scraping the tears from her face, she kept moving forward, as fast as she could manage without collapsing from exhaustion, marking the ground and checking every other tunnel. Her legs carried her forward, without her having to make a conscious effort to move them. Her mind was far away, the questions swirling in her head like wine in a glass, rolling around and around, faster and faster, until it threatened to spill over the edge, and carry her sanity with it.

The munching grew louder. Despair covered her like she was buried in a suffocating tomb, and yet she carried on, with no other choice, listening to those horrid noises accompanied by that even more ominous ticking, ticking, counting down the seconds until her child was taken away.

She ran into the other Killian several more times, but ignored him. Sometimes he said something, mostly he was silent, letting his face express his thoughts. It was as though he was trying out every emotion he'd ever felt, so that once he was forgetful, once he was protective, once he was loving, frustrated, doubting, and so on, as she recognized the many faces of Killian Jones. Or not-Killian, as the case seemed to be.

And then she saw it. The 'O' on the ground, or at least part of it, since it looked as though someone had hastily tried to erase the mark she'd left earlier. Only she'd left it on the fourth tunnel, not the sixteenth.

She sank to the floor in abject misery. This was impossible. The task was impossible. She was a pawn in a hall of mirrors and now she'd have to go back and check all the odd numbered halls too. And Killian, _her_ Killian was nowhere to be seen.

.

.

"Swan!" he yelled again at the top of his lungs, pushing his voice past his shivering body. He hadn't noticed it at first, but a tiny hourglass hung from a couple of arms set into the dirt wall above the curled body of the large worm, and judging by the rate at which it was dropping sand, they had less than fifteen minutes to get the key.

There were no sounds in the large chamber except the swish of silk as the spinnerets on the worm continued weaving, and he began to wonder if he would be stuck there until he froze to death. His hands and feet were already numb, the coldness slowly seeping up his limbs toward his heart. He wanted to jump up and down, anything to keep the blood flowing, but the shelf was too unstable for that, and it was a very long drop to the floor. The most he could manage was to squeeze his muscles intermittently, hoping it would be enough to keep him alert if Emma should run into the chamber and he should somehow make it down to her.

====o0I0o====

Emma had to get up. Had to move past the point of pain and anguish, had to move. She tried holding the sight of her unborn child in her mind, knowing she couldn't fail their baby, she couldn't fail Killian. But it was a dream, all of this was a dream, wasn't it? How could she really be in this freezing place with munching worms, mirror-image Killians, and monsters that held keys? She must be stuck in a nightmare.

Her heavy coat lurched, her baby kicking and rolling over, moving so solidly that it nearly took her breath away. Well, at least her baby was real. She continued to sit, resting her tired limbs, letting the ground hold her up, and hugging the life within her. Time was going to run out, as it had so many times in her past, and her baby, _their_ baby, would be lost forever.

Her tears hit her gloves with soft pats as her heart flowed out of her chest and into her belly, framing the tiny body with all her love. Dreams of this child growing up differently than she had, than even Henry had, shattered all at once, and mournful wailing surrounded her like a giant wall until that was the only sound she could hear.

And then a voice poked through a crevice in the wall of sound and floated oddly through her exhausted brain, disconnected and drifting on a silken thread: "Swan!"

The name formed in her befuddled brain clearly and distinctly, and Emma lifted her head in response.

"Swan! You have to hurry!"

Killian's voice was straining and cracked a little, as though he'd been shouting for a while. She hurried toward it, not bothering to go back to the original room where they'd arrived, but heading toward her left, to enter the backside of the tunnel Killian had entered at first.

She could see it was different even before she reached the end. Instead of the worms' noises getting louder with her approach, they abated as she trotted forward, carrying away the despair that had been steadily growing as she had moved back and forth between the tunnels. Maybe it had all been a ruse to force her to lose precious time.

Furious with the monster and its tricks, she ran headlong into the cavern, stopping instantly when a huge rounded face suddenly appeared before her. Its menacing mouth spread open, so wide it gaped like the maw of a black-bottomed pit, ready to swallow her whole, revealing rows upon rows of pointed teeth like a shark's, gleaming in razor sharp spines. The mouth turned to the side, and she looked up into a giant human eye, blood-red pupils regarding her in a malevolent stare.

A horrified gasp escaped her mouth, but she quickly shed her gloves and grabbed her dagger, holding it up before the monster, feeling like an ant holding a sliver of wood for protection, just before a large foot descends on its head.

She swiped her dagger at the face, the impact shocking her as the knife bounced off the armor-like skin. Her arm went numb, almost like she'd hit her funny bone, and she nearly dropped the only weapon she had counted on for self-defense against the thing. The sound of laughter filled the chamber, and the huge face lifted up, attached to the body of a large worm covered in thick scales, half its body crawling up the walls of the pit while the other half sat on the floor.

"Swan!" Killian shouted.

She looked up to see him on a high shelf, waving his hands. Relief washed over her, fueling her desire to finish this once and for all.

"Come on!" she shouted. "I've had enough of this! Where's the key?!" she yelled at the retreating head.

The thing chuckled, or at least she thought it did, and then she heard as clearly as if it had been spoken, _And what kind of guardian would I be if I just willingly gave up the key?_

Emma jutted her chin forward angrily. "Then how does this play out?" She gestured toward Killian. "We obviously can't defeat you, so what do you want? A deal?" The huge body was covered in thick segments, each overlapping the next, so that even if there was some kind of thin underbelly, her arm would be crushed trying to get her dagger close enough to slit the skin.

_Deals? Really, Mrs. Jones, I can't be bought, unlike you… humans._ The voice in her head sounded derisive at best.

"Then what do you want?"

_The knot removed!_ the voice thundered.

She flinched from the intensity of the response, but recovered quickly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she asked indignantly.

The huge body moved aside, revealing several strands of woven silk, the slight differences in the natural fibers creating a beautiful design. She could see the unfinished end, tapering from the main cloth. A large knot sat near the end of the work, marring the perfection with its contorted strands.

"And you think _I_ can do something about that?" It wasn't as if she'd asked to come here.

_You can run out of time and die!_ it screeched through her mind. _Once the two of you are gone, the cloth will unravel, history will rewrite itself, and it can be rewoven into perfection._

"Why not just kill us now?" she screamed in fury, so tired of being at the mercy of impossible situations that required more than she had to give.

Without warning, its head struck downward, those horrible rows of teeth bared and Emma standing there like a tiny morsel. She ducked and rolled sideways, a little more slowly than she would have liked, feeling the hot breath of the creature brushing just past her head.

"No!" she heard Killian cry from above.

An awful snickering filled her head. _It doesn't work that way. The hour of time must be honored._

But the monster had made its point. Emma blearily raised her head, wondering why the hour mattered, when something else caught her attention. At least twenty mirror-image Killians, each with a different expression, stood before her, swords at the ready. The Balgienit was going to run down the clock first and then it was going to kill her and her husband.

.

.

Although his limbs felt as though they were slogging through mud from the cold, Killian was on his feet and rushing forward, having forgotten how precarious the shelf was. As soon as he'd taken the two steps toward the edge, the dirt fell away, and he was falling through the air, his stomach doing a nauseating tumble as he descended.

But the descent stopped abruptly as he was pulled up by the collar, once again held by the worm's spinnerets. It delivered him in the midst of the fight amongst the Killians, Emma's blonde head bobbing here and there as she fought.

"Swan!" he yelled, just as several other Killians echoed him, and Emma turned her head, trying to determine which was the right one. A knife jab at her face caused him to realize his mistake, and he clamped his lips shut, cutting through the leg of one of his counterparts as another struck at his middle, trying to make it to her back, where they could fight together as they always had. But one of the Killians was already there, protecting her and fighting against the others in a confusing fracas.

There was nothing for him to do but attack. He would take out as many of the other Killians as he could, staying clear of Emma herself, so he wouldn't confuse her and get speared by that lovely little dagger.

Taking a hit on his shoulder as one of the Killians stopped fighting another one to turn on him, he twisted his head to the side, barely missing the swipe of a cutlass aimed for his neck. Swan was only just holding it together, looking more dazed than anything, and he focused on fighting the Killians nearest her, while still keeping his distance.

They were all talking, some engaging in playful banter, some calling her name pitifully, others angrily shouting insults. The melee was never going to end before the time ran out.

"That's it!" Emma shouted above the bedlam.

He looked up to see her face shining with the determination that comes from having finally worked out something that had long been elusive. She ducked under the outstretched sword of one of the Killians, jumped over the fallen body of another and hurled herself in front of the monster, skidding in the loose dirt to her knees. She tucked her head as deep as it would go and wrapped her arms around her belly, clutching her dagger in her hand.

The beast, whose expression had been one of angry interest, cocked its head back in a lazy arc and opened its nightmarish mouth, then struck down incredibly fast, and devoured his beautiful Swan.

Triumphant laughter filled his mind as the monster lifted its human eyes to the clock, and Killian watched as the last couple of grains of sand fell through the constricted neck.

No longer needed, the Killians turned and retreated down the nearest tunnel.

And the Balgienit went back to weaving the threads of time.

* * *

**A/N To the guest who is consistently disappointed in this story: You're wrong in your assumptions and you really have no clue how this is going to end. On behalf of myself and all writers doing our best to entertain, your discouraging reviews could never be construed as constructive criticism, only 'very bad form', in the words of Killian Jones. Please find another story to read. ~DD**

****To all my awesome readers: **I'm sorry for such negative words, but I felt something should be said. **I love you and appreciate you all the more for recognizing the hard work involved in such a detailed story. Your support brings me much joy!****

**This is a busy time of year, but I'm going to do my best to continue with more regular updates. Thanks for reading, and leave a review if you want to make me smile. ;D Happy Thanksgiving! ~DD**


	30. The Belly of the Beast

_Shout-out to buffybabe42 and her Thanksgiving comment in the third paragraph. You DO make me laugh, girl! ;D_

_To my clever beta-reader lethemoirai: your wish is my command, my friend! Also beta-read by Commandante Theresa, who brings smiles to my face!_

_Previously, in An Age Cannot Sate Love:_

_Emma and Killian have traveled through the cocoon and emerged on a pit containing a single tree covered in silk worm nests. Lowering themselves to the base of the pit, they find 24 tunnels surrounding the edge. They begin to systematically search each one, Killian searching the odd numbers and Emma the evens. The first tunnel Killian searches ends in the Balgienit's lair, and he is immediately grabbed and placed on a high shelf where he can only wait for Emma to find him before the clock runs out. Emma searches the even tunnels, going back and forth between what she thinks is two pits with two trees, and running into Killian, only not _her_ Killian, but mirror-images of him. She finally finds the Balgienit's lair, and faces it, but realizes it intends to run down the clock before killing her, and so she is forced to fight the mirror-image Killians, her own thrown into the fray at some point. Just before the clock runs out, Emma races to the foot of the monster, curls up into a ball and allows it to eat her._

* * *

Chapter 30: The Belly of the Beast

* * *

The air filling Killian's lungs in shallow gasps was cold and biting, and he couldn't seem to get enough of it. He was suffocating, strangling in that wretched lair. His eyes moved up to the placid face of the giant creature, and pure hatred filled him from head to toe. The cold held no significance. Being trapped in the pit didn't matter. Never leaving that awful place was trifling. His Swan was gone, somewhere inside that fearsome beast.

"Swan!" he shrieked into the freezing air, his voice cracked and thin and full of anguish. A vision of the creature's grotesque teeth closing over her body fueled his desire to maim it past recognition, and he rushed forward, sword clutched tightly in his hand. The Balgienit had crawled partway up the wall of the pit, the open hole shedding a dusky light over them, the spinnerets and the face completely out of reach.

Killian raised his sword above his head and aimed for whatever he could reach. The weapon bounced off the thick scales in pinging strokes, no more injuring it than a gull could injure the Jolly Roger by repeatedly bashing into the hull. He had been dismissed like all the other Killians, as though his Swan had been the true goal the entire time. The monster had his meal; Emma would die and never be born, never be able to travel to his time in the first place.

His hands failed before his spirit did. The shockwaves from the metal striking the heavy scales finally rendered his arms numb, and his sword fell to the ground at his feet, even though he hadn't consciously dropped it. He stumbled after it, filled with the despair that comes from having lost the only thing in life that ever mattered.

His heart, having been drowned and revived, torn to shreds and stitched back together again, all since meeting Emma Swan, was breaking. A searing pain seized through his chest, and he bent his head down and clutched his hand across it as if somehow he could prolong the inevitable by protecting what was left of the fragile organ. But his heart was pulling apart from itself, half of it shriveling up and dying while the other half labored to pump enough blood to keep him alive.

Truly alone for the first time in weeks, forgotten in that frozen hell, Killian did the only thing he could think of to hurt the untouchable Balgienit.

He grasped his sword with his little remaining strength and dashed across the room, gaining speed as he ran, ready to strike the silken threads leading from the cloth.

The Balgienit saw him coming and reared back, the spinnerets hastily throwing the cloth out of reach before whipping down toward his head. Running for his life, Killian skidded to the nearest tunnel and threw himself into it, waiting for the monster's head to follow. Expecting to see the large tree at the other end, he was surprised when he emerged in the same place, those all-too-human eyes waiting for him.

He picked another tunnel and another. Each one led to the same room, and he groaned in frustration, once again standing in the one place he didn't want to be. There would be no escape today.

Laughter rang throughout the chamber, the creature delighting in its games. Killian was caught in a loop, unable to flee the ghastly worm, knowing it was only a matter of time before he joined his Swan.

"Come on, then, you barbarous slug. Kill me now!" he defied, standing boldly at its base, trying not to imagine where his Swan was in that huge body.

_Don't have to. You didn't cause this aberration, _she _did. Even if you make it out of here, you're just another unfortunate soul lost 'in between'. No one who looks for you will find you, and the world outside will continue as it always has._

It spoke as though Killian were no more than a trifle, and a loud belch escaped the wide mouth, settling into an almost-grin.

_Besides, I find it fascinating watching you humans… fail. _

The Balgienit turned its attention back to the cloth, gently picking up the loose ends, and began its rhythmic weaving, closing its eyes in an expression of bliss. The monster no longer allowed the body of the fabric anywhere near where Killian could reach it, keeping it protected on a deep shelf carved high overhead. There would be no climbing that crumbly dirt wall to destroy the only thing the Balgienit seemed to care about.

Shivering from the cold, despite having just run like a jack rabbit through the tunnels, Killian walked over to the side of the pit where his heavy overcoat lay discarded. He pushed his tired arms into it, found his gloves, and pulled the hood over his head. There was one thought that had begun to chase away some of his despair, and he held onto it like a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood.

Emma was alive. She had to be, for the large knot marring the perfection of the cloth was still visible from where he stood, the tangled threads intact, and _not_ unraveling as the monster said they should with her death. Killian retreated to the base of the wall, dug himself a little cavity to dispel some of the chill, tucked into it and waited, gazing at that telltale defect with the intensity of a sailor waiting for a typhoon as it gathers on the horizon.

====o0I0o====

She couldn't be sure what had given her the idea. She had been fighting for all she was worth against the Killians, sure she'd heard her own somewhere in there but unable to pick him out in the confusion, praying there was some way to stall whatever clock was counting down their minutes faster than a scumbag runs from the law, when the words of the inscription had floated through her brain and something had clicked. _The person himself determines the degree, Hoping to succeed on bended knee… _

Bended knee. A test of faith. That was it. Faith always required submission to some higher ideal, to something that appeared impossible. She had to surrender herself to the monster of time to find the key. Surrender herself to one of the only things that affects us all without distinction. Easy.

But now, as she sat in the belly of the beast, literally, surrounded by darkness and a sloshing pool of thickened slop, she wondered if she was mad instead. She inhaled, trying to catch her breath. That was a mistake. The smell of the stomach contents caused her to lose hers, and not for the first time since discovering she was pregnant, she regretted the heightened sense of smell that accompanied it.

The most she could manage was a weak, "Ugh", and wiped her mouth with the inside of her hood—one of the only dry places left on her coat—and took stock of her current situation. The hand clutching the dagger stung where it must have grazed the tip of one of the teeth—anything more would have cut her hand off. She was alive, and the rest of her seemed fine; the monster must have swallowed her whole without taking the time to chew, maybe thinking it would give her a slow death by digestion.

Her eyes were gradually adjusting to the darkness, thin ribs of light faintly shining through what must be the overlapping scales. Sheathing her dagger, she held her hands in front of her, just able to make out the shape of them.

She was here for the key that must be hidden somewhere inside the giant body. She didn't need to see it; she could feel it, as sure as she could feel Killian was still alive and probably waiting for her. The key was here. Now all she had to do was find it.

Bracing herself on one wall, she stood gingerly, thankful that at least the disgusting brew wasn't deep. The wall was as velvety as a newly wet chamois—there was no place for a key to hide along those smooth walls—so she systematically ran her hands along the floor, careful to keep from sloshing around and missing the small object that might be hiding in the viscous liquid.

But it wasn't there. It wasn't there! Her back ached from bending over and her heart began to thump as she tried to work out where it could possibly be. It must be in there, right? She searched again even more carefully, feeling the thin ridge where the stomach opened into the next chamber, doing her best to keep her movements calculated instead of frantic, keeping all thoughts of what she would do if she didn't find it… But there was nothing. She had been so sure it was there, so sure. Frustrated, she screamed, beating the slippery walls in wet slaps.

"Let me out of here! You knew this would happen! You knew! I can't… I can't…" She was about to say, 'do this anymore', but her voice broke on a sob and she fell back into the stinking contents and cried. Cried for the exhaustion she felt… for her aching body… for her baby who would die when she did… for Killian never getting to meet the child he longed for.

And for never getting to go home, damn Zoso. Henry and his smiling face… her mother's assurances of hope… her father's steady character… her tiny brother, the first baby she'd ever really been around… Failure. This was failure.

But just as all things come to an end, so did her sobbing, until her forehead was pressed against that smooth wall, her heartbeat matching the slow and steady breaths of the giant monster. Spent. There were no other words or thoughts to accompany her current state. She was physically, emotionally and willfully spent. For the first time in days, or what felt like days, her mind was as quiet as her ears when they were immersed underwater.

An unexplainable sense of peace stole over her, and even though she was wet, she realized she wasn't cold in the least; she was a babe sleeping in the cozy safety of her mother's womb. That odd tendril of thought made her unzip her coat and place her hands on her belly, pressing lightly. Her baby instantly responded to her touch with a move of his own, as if saying, _It's not over yet. Don't give up. I love you. Let me help, I've done it before…_

Help? The word startled her out of her malaise and she sat upright as her mind began to work again. Their child had helped her before?

A rush of images flew through Emma's mind, of the moments after she and Killian had fallen through the white fox's portal, after they had been rescued from the Pied Piper. Of the moments when she had been reduced to a tiny shred of herself, holding onto anything she could grab to keep from being lost forever. And she had grabbed hold of him, of Killian, and he had coaxed her magic to life with his gentle touch. She watched as the seat of her magic, the light that resided just below her ribcage, began to grow in intensity, drowning out that horrible piping. And she and Killian had come together, in showers of sparks. Only now she could see that the only reason she had been fully healed from that unspeakable horror, the reason she had walked away from the torture wholly unscathed, was because of another light. One that had been formed by their joining, and had embedded itself in her womb. When that powerful pinpoint had joined with hers, it had erased all the newly-formed scars in her heart and mind in a flash of dynamic energy.

Killian may have roused her magic, but their child, the product of true love twice over, had been the force that undeniably wiped away all the pain.

As the realization hit, she felt another kind of warmth spread through her, energizing her. She could tell it wouldn't last, only sleep and a meal would revive her to her former self, but maybe it would be enough. Enough to finish the task. She rubbed her belly and mouthed a simple _thank you_ to the child within.

There was only one option, to make her way to the raised slit she'd felt in the floor of the belly and move to the next chamber of the worm's body. There was no way for her to know how many chambers it would have; she'd heard some animals had as many as four stomachs. Wishing she'd paid better attention in biology, she felt around for the crevice.

Prying it apart was by no means easy, but once she wedged a foot in the aperture, the muscle relaxed and she and the liquid contents fell through to the next digestive organ like an expanded water balloon that suddenly has its neck cut off.

Her eyes were well-adjusted to the dimness by this point, so she moved her hair out of her face and systematically began searching the floor of this organ as well. Rather than the gravy-like consistency from before, this section was larger and filled with undigested chunks of whatever the thing ate, lodging between her fingers and sticking to her clothing. She began perspiring from the work, so she tossed her coat aside. It sat on top of the muck, an island in the thick stew of undigested food, the shreds in the cloth sticking up willy-nilly like porcupine quills. Her lips curled back in revulsion; those shreds could just as easily have been her skin.

Emma found several hard objects, lifting each to see if it might be a key, or a box containing a key, or anything of the sort. The work was slow and grueling, but she continued, preserving every ounce of energy she was borrowing from her child, holding a picture of Killian in her mind. She had to get back to Killian.

There was nothing in this section either. Once again finding the slit that felt more like a clamped mouth, she pried it open, holding it until the muscle relaxed and released her and the lumpy contents.

She landed on something squishy, and barely caught sight of a long tunnel before the hole closed and she was plunged into total darkness. This section sat more or less horizontally, and a thick muck lined the bottom as well as the sides. Intestine. She sighed, a pitiful sound that she'd be embarrassed to admit had come from her own mouth if anyone had been there to hear her. A quick once over of the walls beneath the goo told her what she already knew; wavy projections formed probably hundreds of narrow gutters and channels. The key could be lodged anywhere in those little shelves and tucks, and she'd have to search each one, including the ones underneath the muck.

She found her footing and began, a pile forming behind her as her hands slid in between all those slick bumps and extensions. The smell had long since ceased to bother her, but the texture of the glumpy stuff reminded her too much of unmentionable things, and she threw up more than once, until she was finally doing nothing more than intermittent dry heaving.

Turning her ankle on something hard, she slipped and sat down heavily, sinking into the pile behind her. It very nearly cradled her, if it could be called that. Misery. Emma couldn't remember a time when she'd been more miserable. Scratch that. She could. Loads of times. Of being bullied as a child in the foster system. Of adults who didn't care. Of Neal leaving her. Of giving Henry up for adoption—probably the worst. And then the more recent memories of her body covered in shallow paper cuts, then healed with burning lights. Of her heart broken more than once by her love for Killian. Of being forced to succumb to the sounds of that awful pipe that made her body do things she couldn't control. Of not knowing if she would make it home, no matter how brave a face she put on. Of…

_You've been through worse and survived, countless times, _she told herself. _You can do this._

She looked up and must have opened her eyes. Maybe she had been searching with them closed, because now she could see a faint light just up ahead, obscured by a possible bend in the creature's body. Unable to make out anything else, she quickly stood and fought her way toward that tiny light.

One hand on the wall for support, she rounded a corner and stared at a small box, floating in mid-air and surrounded by a blue light enfolding the box like a transparent napkin. It was beautiful. The raised detailing had been carved by an artisan who had known his trade. She tentatively reached toward it, feeling as though she shouldn't mar the beautiful object with her filthy fingers.

She was submerged in darkness at the same time she heard a wet plop.

"Damn-it!" Fumbling beneath where it had hovered, her hand brushed its hard edge. She immediately grabbed it, noting that it was small enough to fit in one hand.

Relieved, she fumbled around until she came to the latch.

_No, don't open it. If it falls out, you'll have a hell of a time finding it again._

Right. Tucking it inside her vest, the hard edges cutting into her skin, she turned her attention to the idea that had been forming in her mind while she had worked, an answer to the question of how she was going to get out of the giant body. It was the same as when she'd go to the gym, pounding away at the face of a punching bag, when whatever problem or case she'd been working on would suddenly open up before her eyes, like her brain had expanded enough to see the answer that had otherwise eluded it. Whether it was the aerobic high or not, she was grateful she had found a possible solution. And if it didn't work out, there was always plan B, and she could slowly slug her way through the entire digestive system and emerge from the other end. Oh, how far she had come. She could only pray it wouldn't come to that.

Lifting her feet as she trekked back through the muck, shouldering her way through the more significant piles, she made her way to the previous intestinal chamber and pried open the thick-walled muscle. It suddenly released, and a drizzle of disgusting particles splashed in her face. She spat a couple of times to clear her mouth, but kept a tight hold, hauling herself through, barely making it before the aperture clamped down again.

Sitting in the empty chamber, she caught her breath, using the inside of her collar to wipe her face. Soaking wet with the slimy contents of the creature's meals, she was hopeful for the first time in what felt like ages.

====o0I0o====

Killian's eyes had long since glazed over. The Balgienit had been sitting in the exact same position for who knew how long, but certainly long enough for the night to have advanced in a spattering of stars visible from the open air at the top of the pit.

A loud moan split the air, and Killian jumped to his feet, wincing with the pull on his stiff muscles. The Balgienit suddenly dropped its weaving and lifted a mid-section of its body before slamming it to the ground. The ground trembled with the force of the blow, and nearly knocked Killian off his feet.

Stunned, he stared at the creature as it began wriggling like an earthworm exposed to the sun, and several opals from the trouncing mid-section fell unheeded to the ground. Then she was there, his Swan, dagger protruding from her hand, blond head bobbing as she emerged from the scales of the writhing worm, a red ooze squeezing out around her.

She had cut her way out.

"Bloody hell, Swan!" he shouted to the open air. Dodging the tail that continued to thrash without regard, swinging around another section that was moving up and down and then sideways, Killian shielded his head with an arm and made his way over to her as quickly as he could. The creature rolled before he could grab her, but suddenly she was back, and he locked his hands around her arms and pulled her free, her body popping out like a cork from a bottle.

Half dragging her to the nearest tunnel, he crushed her to him before gently releasing her to check for injuries. She was covered in the juices of the beast, and one hand had several scratches on it. Her eyes had closed from sheer exhaustion and the relief that comes from being free of a nightmare, but she appeared to be otherwise unharmed. The sounds of the ailing beast were fading in the background; apparently it had met its demise.

"Swan," he urged gently, "Tell me, love, are you hurt anywhere?" Her body was curled in a half-sit, and at the sound of his voice, she lifted her head. Her green eyes appeared bright and clear compared to the muck covering her, and he began to breathe more easily, the shriveled half of his heart surging back to life with each rise and fall of her chest.

"No, I-I'm fine. I think." She put a hand to her head as if to steady it, and he realized she must have had quite a clobbering inside that thing while it fought for its life.

A square box sat tucked underneath her vest, and he could only hope she had found the key, but he wouldn't ask, having learned that she often needed a minute to collect herself after harrowing experiences and would tell him when she'd somewhat recovered. Her jacket was missing, which meant they had to find another one, and quickly. The temperature was plummeting with the advance of night.

Removing his overcoat, he wrapped it around her shoulders. The first thing she did was bury her face in it, inhaling deeply.

"Best thing I've smelled in ages," she said hoarsely. Her lips turned up in a smile, and he relaxed to the ground, realizing she must truly be alright.

"Ah, well, it does much to muffle your own aroma, Swan," he said with an answering grin, "Let's just do this up, shall we?"

He bent forward to engage the zipper, pausing when her hand touched his arm.

"I found it. The key. I'm sure of it." She pulled out the box and handed it to him.

Engravings of different landscapes covered each side, intricate designs that must have taken hours of work. Tiny animals fitted into the landscapes as expected, with fish and a whale underwater, a wolf and a moose in the deep forest, a rabbit in the grassland, and so on. It was quite possibly the most exquisite workmanship he'd ever beheld.

"Well done, love. Well done." He smiled back at her, marveling at her spirit, her bravery, wondering what he'd ever done to earn the love of a woman so remarkable.

He handed the box back to her, and she tucked it in the pocket of his overcoat while he zipped her into it. He took her hand and pulled her up, hoping he was turning toward the room with the tree.

"Wait. I need to see." Her face was apologetic as she pulled away toward the monster's lair. He kept hold of her hand, squeezing it in sympathetic understanding.

He had been watching her, loving her, no longer concerned with the creature now that it was dead. But the look of surprise on her face caused him to shift his eyes in the same direction as hers.

If it weren't for the blood and ooze soaking into the dirt floor, and that small pile of opals, Killian might have thought nothing had happened. His own mouth dropped in amazement and he tightened his grip on Emma. The Balgienit was there as it always had been, weaving the threads of cloth with its spinnerets, red eyes open and blinking.

_Nicely done, Mr. and Mrs. Jones,_ he heard.

He didn't know how to respond. Still gaping at the restored monster, the scene before him dissolved into uniform darkness, accompanied by restful peace and quiet that amplified the exhaustion of his body and mind. Emma's hand slipped from his, concurrent with the slip of his mind into the happy tug of sleep.

====o0I0o====

Emma slowly returned to consciousness through a series of sensations. Hot… Sticky… Heavy… Disgusting… She moaned and tried to turn over, but her body wouldn't obey. Oh well, she wasn't all that bent on waking up when senseless bliss was just within reach. Birds squawking… water rushing… No, no, no… Sleep instead… Reaching toward that dreamless blackness, and just about to fall back under it, a drop of water splashed on her nose, followed by several more. They were cold, a relief from the stifling air she had been breathing, and very effective at bringing her back from the oblivion of sleep.

She opened her eyes to see Killian blocking the sun, standing above her with a grin on his face, wearing nothing but his leather pants, undone and barely hanging on his hips.

"Ah, so she lives," he said cheerfully, his wet hand dangling over her face, no trace of guilt at having woken her marring his handsome features.

She sat up slowly, peeling back the overcoat as she moved, her sticky clothes pulling rather painfully on her now-dry skin. They were on a sandy beach, the surf a few yards away. She blinked several times, turning around to see a lush tropical forest behind them with a small hut, complete with a wooden deck that led down to the beach, tucked into a spray of large palms.

She must have looked surprised because he laughed, a delightful sound that drew an answering smile from her own lips; it had been awhile since she'd seen anything but worry on his face. Her heart lightened at the idyllic scene and her happy pirate, and she wondered if maybe they could rest for awhile before having to face the Dark One.

"What is this place?" she asked, taking his hand as he helped her to stand. Her hands were caked with lines of dark sludge, in stark contrast to his whiter, cleaner ones. He had removed her boots already; the warm sand felt heavenly underneath her feet.

He looked around before turning back to her. "Distinctly reminds me of a place the crew and I would ordinarily hide out, when one of the Royal Navies would get wind of our activities and chance pursuit, but…" He stopped and a shadow passed over his face. He shook it off, his shaggy hair sweeping across his forehead, and resumed smiling. "What say you to a dip in the tide, Swan? Might help," he advised quietly with a wrinkle of his nose.

"What, you don't like the smell of bile, pirate?" She pounced on him, catching him off-guard, and wrapped her arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He pulled his head as far away as he could get and wrapped his own arms around her, dragging her toward the surf.

"I'm thinking that's more than bile, Swan."

She snorted with laughter, the release that comes after surviving such a difficult situation with so many unanswered questions. He succeeded in getting her close to the waves, but she pulled back.

"No, wait, let me get these off," she said, unfastening a couple of buttons on her vest.

"Not necessary." And with one big heave, he pulled her forward, overcompensating. She lost her balance and fell on top of him, still giggling.

He rolled her over so she was covered by the water and could no longer protest her clothing. The sharp coldness of it nearly took her breath away as it seeped over her skin, freeing her from the cloying fibers. Satisfied, he stood up and leaned down to help her. "See now, no need to worry about submerging your clothing, Swan. They could use a good washing too."

"Oh, 'cause you're offering? Can't think of anything sexier than a pirate doing laundry," she smirked from below him. She reached for his hand, but at the last minute grabbed the legs of his pants and pulled them to his ankles in a quick tug. "Well, maybe I _can_…"

She scrabbled backward into deeper water, the playful look in his eyes promising revenge. He calmly lifted each leg out of the leather, and once he'd thrown them toward shore, began advancing on her slowly and purposefully.

Swallowing thickly at the gleam in his eyes and the smirk on his face, her body shivered as she retreated, but not from the frigid waves breaking around her. A pleasant heat was firmly pushing its way to the outer edges of her skin, and she paused, gazing… Taking in every line of that lithe body as it disappeared beneath the waves, firm calves tapering to well-formed knees, topped by the delineated muscles of his thighs, the compact tightness of his biceps, the ripples across his abdomen, the dusting of dark chest hair that trickled downward…

As soon as he reached her side, he grinned maliciously, leaning close to her ear. She closed her eyes and let him, her fire ignited by his raw desire.

"Everything you think is written on your face, love. I'm quite sure I share your sentiments, although… not yet." His hand whipped on top of her head and pressed her underwater.

She came up sputtering, her hair streaming in her face. "You… you…"

"At a loss for words, love?" he asked innocently, lazing backward when she lunged forward.

"Fancy a kiss, _love_?" she mocked, chasing after him.

They were standing in shoulder-deep water, but he stopped moving back, instead turning his face away and blocking her so she couldn't get any closer. "Not really, no."

He dropped his hands underwater and began tickling her, just on the sides of her belly where the skin was most sensitive, and she folded, laughing as his deft fingers moved around her body, wiggling and pinching and removing clothing while she squirmed, until _her_ clothes had been discarded on the beach too.

Then his mouth was on hers in a flash, his body pressing into hers, his fingers gripping her hips, holding her tightly like a sail holds the wind. She answered with her own longing, born out of a desire to demonstrate just how much she loved him and appreciated his presence on this journey. He was Killian, _her _Killian, the man with whom she was intrinsically linked throughout the ages. She had no idea what the future held, but this moment was theirs.

They came together with a fierceness that echoed the difficulty of the last test, each holding the other as though they had all the time in the world.


	31. An Unexpected Twist of Fate

_Over 500 Followers! I must have the most considerate and fantastic readers out there! Thank you so much for all your reviews. I'm hearing from lots of guest readers; what a pleasure to know you're out there! _

_Beta-read by lethemoirai and Commandante Theresa—love you guys!_

_Let me apologize for the lateness of this update. I had hoped to get it in sooner, but I really strive to do my best, and that just takes time. And I know I didn't respond to all you awesome people taking the time to leave a review—time is short during this season and I'm trying to spend it writing. Cheers!~DD_

_Previously, in _An Age Cannot Sate Love_,_

_Emma has retrieved the key to the door of time from the intestine of the Balgienit monster. She emerges from the monster, having cut through its thick skin, key box in hand, where Killian pulls her free. Blackness surrounds the two of them, and both are pulled into a deep sleep. They wake on a deserted island with time for much deserved rest and relaxation, not knowing what else is in store._

* * *

Chapter 31: An Unexpected Twist of Fate

* * *

Emma shuffled out of the cabin and into the sunlight, instantly throwing up a hand against the glare. She wasn't quite awake yet, and although her addiction to coffee had long since been extinguished with the duration of her time in the past, this was one such morning when she wished she had it. It was like being on vacation, not that she'd had a terrible amount of experience with one, but she had taken a couple with Killian, and they would drink coffee and lounge around all day. This seemed the perfect day for lounging, especially with the sight that greeted her eyes once she could fully focus them.

Killian stood knee-deep in the water, elbows resting on his thighs as he bent over studying something. Emma was given the backside view, and for as much as he said he enjoyed hers, she loved his just as much. He was wearing a pair of cutoff jeans they'd found in the bungalow, which was all he'd been wearing for the past three days. She had been living in a similar pair of cutoffs and a bikini top that barely covered her swollen breasts. The small hut hadn't contained much else except a futon-like bed and a table, which Killian had filled with different kinds of fruit he'd found.

He moved suddenly, thrusting his hand under the low waves like a spring whose tension is altogether released, before flinging something over his shoulder.

"Whu…? Aak!" she exclaimed, as a wriggling pair of pincers headed straight for her face. She quickly ducked to the side and watched as the crab fell in a quiet plop in the sand, legs clicking and squirming as it tried to right itself.

"Oh, didn't see you there, love," he said with a wide grin, standing up to his full height and making his way over to her. When he reached her side, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her in close for a kiss and whispered against her mouth, "Good morning, beautiful."

She lifted a hand to the side of his neck and rested her head against his naked shoulder, looking out across the waves. Their baby moved between them, and she could feel Killian smile in response; he was going to be such a wonderful father. Standing there so close together, her own little family, she felt a peacefulness she'd only experienced a few times in life. It felt so good to let him hold her, to let his arms and the sound of the rushing water wash away her worries for now. She was getting quite good at embracing the moment, having recently learned such times were often a temporary respite from the next trial.

"I could get used to this," Killian echoed her thoughts, linking his fingers behind her back.

She didn't say anything, but he must have felt her stiffen, his words brushing across her emotions like a soft cloth over a cut, reminding her what she would be giving up if they stayed.

"What is it?" He pulled back so he could look into her face.

Emma sighed, conflicted. She didn't want to ruin the day with desires that could never be, but she also knew she could tell him anything; he would understand. "It just makes me miss my family. I could see you tossing a Frisbee with Henry in the surf, Mom and Dad sitting on the beach and playing with little Leo just there." She pointed to a spot under the shade of a couple of palms.

"And you? Where would you be, my love?" His hand lifted to a strand of hair that had strayed from her ponytail, tucking it gently behind her ear.

"Sitting right here, watching all of you." Her throat began to thicken in response to her nostalgic thoughts, and she cursed the pregnancy hormones that made her cry at the drop of a hat.

He nodded and sighed, acknowledging her muddled feelings without a word, just drawing her in closer.

"Hey, it's alright. No point in getting all upset over something we can't change." His neck smelled like sunshine and coconuts, and she planted a couple of kisses there, mostly so he would know she was fine. For her, hormones meant an over-sensitivity to just about everything. For him, it meant checking to make sure she was feeling okay every few minutes. Both could be annoying.

"Too right, Swan," he chuckled quietly, resting his chin against her head.

They stood like that for several minutes, before a glance over his shoulder revealed a couple of interesting contraptions lying in the sand. "What are you doing?" she asked, wondering about the small teepee of sorts, palm leaves encasing it, with smoke billowing out of the top in a steady plume.

He followed her line of sight, but didn't release her. "Drying shrimp and coconut meat to replenish our food supply. We ate the last of the tins the first night, and…"

She placed her fingers over his lips to quiet his explanation that was sure to be very practical, and she was feeling anything but practical at the moment. He truly was a wonder, and she loved him for it. "Well, at least I know we'll be able to survive the zombie apocalypse," she giggled.

"Zombie... come again?"

"Surely you saw the _Walking Dead_ in one of your late-night video fests," she teased. "I had no idea you knew how to do all this." A net made from saplings bent into a hoop sat in the sand next to the smoking teepee. He had secured the cloth she usually wound around her breasts to the frame, probably having used it to catch and scoop the shrimp.

"Well, if I'd have known it might be useful, I would have watched it as well," he said neutrally. "Although that Bear Grylls surely knows his trade."

"Still trying to figure out when you had the time," she replied, shaking her head; she couldn't have slept _that_ much.

"Mmm-hmmm," he mumbled, rubbing her back in rhythmic circles.

"Well, at least you know you have something to fall back on if piracy doesn't work out."

He hesitated, his hands stopping their massage. "Not if I don't remember how to do any of it." He popped the 't' on the end of the sentence, indicating he had been thinking about any number of things, and hadn't had the chance or maybe the courage to share them with her. His hold tightened nonetheless, as if he were afraid of what needed to be said.

Fear or no, his words were like a cold splash of water to the face, and she pulled away, turning to find the crab he'd tossed over his shoulder quickly scuttling back into the surf. They had avoided speaking of anything except what was right in front of them since they'd arrived, reserving conversation for the beautiful starlit nights, or what she wanted for their next meal, which had been mostly fresh-caught fish and whatever fruit he'd found in the forested area behind the cabin, both content to stay present to the moment. Emma had been feeling quite pampered, and would have helped in the foraging, but had been ordered to rest by her overprotective husband.

"What do you mean?" she asked curiously, although it was of the morbid sort that she knew she'd probably regret. She kept thinking they would hand over the key and hot-tail it over to Neverland to wait out the time it would take for her family to find themselves in Storybrooke. Maybe by that time they would have found some way to return her to them.

But Killian was smart, and he had had a lot of time to think in the last couple of days since they'd been on the island. He had recovered almost immediately, whereas she had been too tired to think; her body had required rest and fuel.

His silence betrayed the direction his thoughts had taken.

"You don't think we got away with it?" Her question came out more like a statement, carrying the weight of her worry on the words.

"What makes you think so? Because the Dark One hasn't come to claim the key?" He bent to pick up a small shell, using the edge of it to pick at his fingernails, fiddling with it more than anything.

"Something like that," she said carefully.

"No, I don't think we've gotten away with anything." He paused, then continued. "It'd be too easy, and it wouldn't be consistent with my memories… I have all of them, remember? No, as much as I would love to whisk you away to Neverland or anyplace we could live out our lives together, I think you still get through the door somehow, and I still take that damned potion." His mouth tightened, and he dropped his hands to his sides, staring out across the water, his own internal conflict surfacing for a few seconds.

A simple "oh" was all she could manage, a sound that conveyed the conflict of being torn from Killian now in order to be with her family and his future self, leaving him to his sad fate.

"And unfortunately, we have to leave, probably no later than mid-afternoon," he added, looking at her as his attention returned to the present.

"Mid-afternoon? But that's so soon!" she cried. She knew he was most likely right about having to leave their mini-vacation spot, but she had hoped to have a little more time. It was like being at a party and the lights flipped on, when everyone was in the middle of dancing to their favorite song.

"Aye it is. But our tropical paradise isn't going to exist by the end of the day." She could tell by his tone that he had rather hoped it would, that he could have quite possibly stayed there indefinitely with her. He tossed the shell high out over the water, watching it until it landed with a small splash. "Look."

She looked toward the horizon, but saw nothing except blue sky where it met blue water, fading into each other in an obscure line. "I don't see anything."

"Now look," he said, removing his small telescope from his pocket.

"It's…" she said, following the line of the horizon in either direction, "I don't know what it is. It just sort of fades away."

"Exactly, and it's happening all round. When I climbed a tree this morning for more coconuts, I could see all the edges fading. And judging by the rate at which that's happening, I'd say we have 'til mid-afternoon."

Three days. That would mean they had been on the island for three days. Hiking that length of time with nothing to eat, or sitting in a pit covered in filth, three days felt like six weeks. But on a deserted island with the man she loved, three days felt more like ten minutes. What a fleeting thing time was—all depended on perspective she guessed. And not for the first time in her life, she wished it could be flipped, that misery would pass quickly, and joy would linger instead.

"Can you tell what it's fading into?" she asked, collapsing the telescope and handing it back to him.

"Good question. I had a better view of it from the forest, but not much. All I can make out are blurred shapes."

"I _so_ don't like the sound of that." She put her hands on her hips and leaned back a little, trying to release some of the perpetual tension in her lower back, praying they wouldn't have to go on some super-long hike again.

"But there you have it. One way or another, we're going to move toward what I can only assume is the door, or the door will come to us."

"And Zoso?"

"Yet another good question." He stepped away contemplatively, and she watched him crouch to open the palm leaves of the teepee. It was really a tripod of sorts that had a shelf about halfway down, made out of another palm leaf and upon which dozens of small shrimp and several chunks of coconut meat sat roasting. The large leaf covering trapped most of the smoke. He reached in and began turning each piece.

"Here, Swan, you must be hungry. Try this."

He handed her a couple of pieces of shrimp and a small piece of coconut. She popped them in her mouth, groaning in delight at the smoky flavor that complimented the saltiness of the shrimp and sweetness of the coconut. The man sure knew how to cook.

"What has you so worried about what I eat?" she asked while licking her fingers. "Ever since we got here you've been plying me with food, not that I'm complaining, mind you." She held out her hand, accepting another piece from him.

"Not just yours, love." His eyes alighted on her belly, then back up to her face. "You're rather thin for an expectant mother."

"How could I not be with the kind of exercise we've gotten recently?" she blurted.

"Precisely my concern, Swan. I think you need to eat more. Haven't you been hungry?"

"I don't think so. But then when I get stressed out I don't eat as much. And _maybe_ I've been a bit stressed here lately," she answered with an exaggerated shrug and a small smile.

"I'll say." He stood up, brushing his hands on his shorts. "This will wait a bit, so let me get you a piece of fruit. I want to show you something."

.

.

Killian took her hand and pulled her after him, stopping only long enough to deposit a mango in her other hand. It was the first time in several days that she looked like herself again. The dark circles under her eyes had faded to a barely-there gray, and she moved with her usual grace. He had made sure she'd done nothing more than rest, and often if he left her alone for a few minutes while he fished or gathered fruit, he'd come back to find her sleeping again. She had obviously needed it.

"What is it?" she mumbled through a mouthful of fruit. Turning, he could see a line of juice dripping down her chin, beckoning to be kissed away.

"It's just up ahead. Be patient, Swan," he admonished with a smile. He pushed a large fern out of the way of the makeshift path he'd forged the day before, the sounds of birds calling to each other growing louder as they hiked deeper into the forest. "And follow my feet exactly. I nearly walked into a giant ant pile yesterday that was hidden by a cluster of large leaves."

"Ants. Great," she said without enthusiasm, and focused her eyes to the ground.

He stopped walking when the path opened up onto a small pool, waiting until she stood even with him, watching her face as she lifted her eyes. It was flushed from the warmth of the day and the walk, and her expression melted from one of concentration to absolute wonder.

"Killian," she breathed, and stopped, at a loss for words. Her hand holding the mango dropped to her side, the seed falling to the grown unheeded.

The edge of the pool was surrounded by trees, darkening the water with their ample shadows and lending a coolness to the air, a respite from the sunny beach. Flowers of every color and shape hugged each other, snugly inserted wherever there was an empty space. Brightly colored birds flitted from tree to tree, one occasionally swooping down in a show of prowess for its fellows. The scene was beautiful, beyond anything he'd ever seen in his own world.

"So this is where you were when I woke up yesterday." The awe was still in her voice, along with a touch of gratefulness for having brought her here. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off one particular spot where several water lily pads housed a family of tiny turtles.

"Ah well, I couldn't very well disturb you when you were sleeping so soundly after our afternoon exertions." He hesitated, waiting until he caught her raised eyes. "I watched you for a bit, then at the first hint of a snore, I lit out of there."

She punched him in the arm, eyes twinkling. "I do _not_ snore."

"How confident are you in that, Swan? We could wager on it." He lifted a hand to his scruffy chin, stroking it as if considering.

"Name the stakes, pirate," she challenged, calling his bluff.

He dropped his hand, laughing. "Have I ever told you you'd make a helluva a pirate, Swan? I'd love to host you at the card tables one day."

She held out her hand, and he took it, which she shook forcefully. "It's a date."

He held her saucy green eyes until she turned away, popping the back of the bikini top so it fell to the ground and doffing her short trousers; a couple of delicious moves that induced the appropriate tightening of his lower abdomen. She pushed aside several of the tall plants and waded into the water, slipping beneath the surface with the same allure as a sunset slipping under the line of the horizon. He swallowed, his mouth dry as he pictured his Swan re-emerging. She did, hair slicked back from her face, and tossed him a look he knew all too well.

"We may only have a few hours left, but I intend to make the most of them. Care to join me?"

He was stripped down and in the water in the time it would have taken a released sail to drop. And his lady never had to ask twice.

====o0I0o====

As it turned out, they didn't actually have to hike anywhere. Emma shoved her legs into her now clean but constrictive leather pants, when Killian knelt down in front of her to help with the laces hidden beneath her bulging belly.

"I never thought I'd see you doing anything except trying to get me _out_ of my clothes." She ran her fingers through his still-wet hair, rubbing his head.

He groaned in pleasure, cocking his head back to look her in the eye. "Keep that up and that's exactly what I'll be doing. Believe me, these are less than ideal circumstances," he grunted, turning back to his work.

By the time they emerged from the hut, weapons attached to their waists and their much lighter backpacks shouldered, the tropical paradise did indeed only exist in a small patch of their immediate surroundings, approximately twenty square feet. And as Emma watched, that slowly faded to fifteen feet, then ten, as each of the trees, the palms and the plants either faded away completely, or were left in amorphous shapes, only recognizable by their apparent sizes.

She turned to Killian. "Whatever happens next, I want you to know how grateful I am for all you've done, from the moment we met. This wasn't your journey, and yet…"

"Shh, Swan, it's inconsequential. Truth be told, once I'd met you, I never had any intention of letting you out of my sight." He smiled, blue eyes soft, and planted a light kiss to her mouth before turning back to look out over what was left of the landscape.

The colors of the tropical world faded into a dismal gray, so that they were once again standing in the same sort of place she had landed when she had first traveled through the waterfall door. There was nothing in any direction, no lumbering shapes or vague landmarks. It was disorienting, and she gripped Killian's hand for balance.

He responded with his own squeeze. "So, to the door, I suppose," and he prepared to step forward.

But instead of an image of a door forming in her mind, Emma thought of Zoso, and the steadily increasing worry of what would happen should he claim the key.

A strong wind began passing over their bodies, and Emma braced herself against it. Squinting, she could just see a tiny black spot growing quickly on the horizon.

Killian was watching the spot too. As it grew larger, she saw the shape of a man traveling toward them at top speed. His back was to them, and it looked as though he'd never be able to slow his momentum in time to keep from colliding with them.

It wasn't until the strong wind suddenly stopped that she realized he hadn't been the one moving; they had, halting just a few feet behind him.

The man instantly whirled around, his large cloak fanning out around him. "Mr. Jones and Miss Swan! How lovely to see you again." Zoso's face held no hint of malice, speaking to them as if he considered them old friends.

"Zoso," she said, catching Killian's slight head inclination out of the corner of her eye.

"Dear me, but you must have taken some sort of a detour." His eyes rose as high as they would go, wrinkling his forehead so much that it looked like it didn't belong on a face.

"More like the detour took us," Killian muttered, at the same time she asked, "Where are we?"

"Oh, very near the door I should say." He paused a moment, looking them up and down, calculating something she was sure. The only sound was the steady plop of dripping water, but she couldn't see where it might be coming from.

He brushed his hands together back and forth. "Well then, to business. If you're here, I assume you have the key."

"I do," she answered. "But one question before I hand it over to you."

"At your service, milady." He made a courtly bow, and she suppressed the desire to throttle him for all his showy manners.

"How do we get out of here, if you take the key?"

"Well, as luck would have it, you're just on the other side of the waterfall door." Stepping aside, he pointed to the floor, where a small puddle had collected. A drop of water appeared out of nowhere and plunged downward, adding to the puddle. She watched a couple such drops, then turned back to the Dark One.

"And we just go right through?"

"Yes, Miss Swan, and you'll emerge in the same time you left."

"Good enough." She looked over at Killian to make sure she had his support, then reached into her bag and held out the box. Emma had chosen not to open it, deciding that it didn't matter what was inside, and Killian had been content to follow her lead in this case. There was nothing but confusion and conflict associated with that key. By staying with Killian, she could quite possibly help him change his fate, preserve him from so many years of revenge and despair. But staying with Killian now meant giving up her family.

Zoso took the box from her like a child taking a gift, eagerly and expectantly. He opened it carefully, studying the contents. Then his eyes grew cloudy, his mouth clamped into a tight line and he threw it on the floor.

"Where's the key, Miss Swan? We made a deal for the key, and you've given me an empty box."

"What? Empty? Are you freaking kidding me?" She looked over at Killian, to see if he knew anything about it, but he was watching the Dark One with hooded eyes, one hand touching his sword, ready to pull it in case the old man became violent.

Zoso's expression was contorted with rage, his wrinkles making his face look more like a mask than a man. He moved forward with open hands as if to grab her, but Killian stepped in front of her, drawing his sword and shoving her behind him with a strong arm. "Hold on there, mate. We've given you the box. Now just take it and move on."

"You've stolen it! I told you what would happen if you tried to trick me! Are you testing my patience, Miss Swan?"

"No, but you're testing mine." With that, Killian swung his sword toward Zoso's left shoulder, causing the man to flinch to the right. When he did, Killian hooked his boot around Zoso's leg, pulling him off balance. The man landed on the ground with a loud grunt, something in his weathered body crunching on impact.

Zoso moaned and threw up his hands as if to protect himself or use magic against them, but before he could do anything more, Killian dashed to the fallen man's side and drove him toward the puddle of water. As soon as his cloak touched it, he disappeared, taking the puddle with him.

Emma blinked a couple of times in astonishment. Killian had acted with the speed and authority of the captain she knew him to be. It was exciting to see him in such a role, since for much of their journey he had deferred to her wishes. Filled with awe, her eyes softened at the man who could protect as well as he could command a ship, and she felt honored to have won his love.

As for the puddle, she couldn't imagine where it had gone, and whether or not that meant the door was gone too, preventing Zoso's return. And if the key box was empty, and the waterfall door was gone or moved, where did that leave them?

Killian backed up a couple of steps and looked up at Emma with an upraised brow, obviously proud of himself. "Nice to be able to save you once in awhile, Swan."

"Anytime, pirate, anytime." She smiled, touching his cheek a moment before turning to retrieve the fallen box, unwilling to leave the beautiful piece of artwork to the gray world, opening it to see if the inside was as exquisite as the outside. There was no way of knowing what would happen now, but at least they had each other.

"Hey, Killian, look at this." Inside the cover, she could just make out another inscription, etched in tiny lettering. She read it aloud to him.

.

_One such law affects us all_

_Its existence woven through truth_

_A thread of renewal_

_A fiber of change_

_The only requirement to surrender thereof_

_And learn that even an age cannot sate love_

.

"Ah, a key of knowledge," Killian declared, reading over her shoulder, "How very clever."

"You mean it's a riddle?" She turned her head, looking at him with a questioning gaze. Could it be that the key wasn't a physical key at all?

"To some extent. It has an answer… and I know what it is." His lips curled up into a smile and his blue eyes glinted with self-satisfaction.

"You do?" she asked, wondering how it was he had a clue what the cryptic inscription meant, at the same time thanking God he did.

====o0I0o====

_Killian Jones stood in his cursed kitchen, staring out the window at the gloomy sky, watching the rain as it pattered against the pane. His thoughts were drawn to his child growing inside his wife's body, a child she couldn't see, a pregnancy she couldn't feel. He had been feeling more and more depressed as time had gone forward, and it was one of those days when his brain might burst from trying to catalog the sheer volume of memories. Those were the days when he'd concentrate on one thing: his love for Emma and their growing child._

_Glancing down at the windowsill, he caught sight of Emma's wedding ring, where she'd left it from having washed dishes earlier. He picked it up, the emerald appearing dark in the low light, the diamonds surrounding it like a tiny halo, and turned it, wondering if her ring had an engraving as well. _

_It did._

* * *

**A/N The flashback at the end of this chapter refers to the time during the curse. If you remember, Jones sat on the couch flipping channels, feeling altogether awful about everything going on, when he notices his wedding ring sitting on a chain around his neck. Studying it, he finds that it is engraved: An Age Cannot Sate Love. He makes a note to check Emma's ring next time she leaves it on the sill to wash dishes. This is the flashback you get here-Jones sees that Emma's ring does indeed have an engraving. You won't find out what it is until the next chapter, of course! ;D**

**Hopefully I'll be able to update a little sooner. Thank you for your patience. Much love to you all! ~DD**


	32. Who Decides What We See: Part Three

_You'll probably all hate me by the end of this chapter, but know that I love you all! Merry Holidays!_

_Previously, in An Age Cannot Sate Love:_

_Killian and Emma have spent three blissful days in a tropical paradise after acquiring the key-box to the door of time from Balgienit monster. The tropical paradise faded until she and Killian stood in the dismal gray expanse where Emma had first landed upon her arrival through the waterfall door all those months ago. Zoso appears to claim the key, standing beside a puddle he claims is the waterfall door. When he learns the box is empty, he becomes violent, but before he can hurt her, Killian steps in and disposes of the Dark One through the waterfall door, which disappears with the old man. Emma looks more closely at the box and finds it's not empty after all, but contains an inscription. Killian reveals it's a key of knowledge to which he knows the answer._

* * *

Chapter 32: Who Decides What We See: Part Three

* * *

Killian studied her beautiful face. Several emotions struggled for supremacy, most notably expectation and excitement, and some pride directed at him, probably for knowing the answer to the inscription. His own pride surfaced like a trapped air bubble bursting to the top of the ocean—he loved to impress his Swan—but it was destined to be short lived, especially since he _did _know the answer, and quite possibly the telling of it would bring this stage of his journey to a bitter end.

She knew it too, for hidden in the corners of her eyes, nestled among the tiny creases, crouched a small ration of fear. He shared it with her, once again aligning perfectly with the only person he had or ever would achieve such unity.

Well, there was one thing left to do before he should lose her for the next few centuries.

He took the box from her hands and placed it in his pocket, then gathered her left hand in both of his, fingering her wedding ring while he searched for the right words. She looked down at their hands and her eagerness crumbled to an unsettled sadness, as though she had guessed his thoughts.

"I… suppose I could pay you now," she said hesitantly, speaking of her wedding ring as the agreed-upon payment for his having escorted her to the door of time. She was confused; the thought, _was I wrong about him?_ crossed her face as clearly as a single cloud across a sky, and when she looked up, her green eyes were smoky with restraint.

He chuckled lightly, holding her gaze. "Not quite what I was going for, love. But since you're offering…" He flipped his hand, palm up, waiting for her to twist the emerald off her finger.

It took some doing, and he could see where the band had made an indentation in the base of her finger as though it intended to slowly merge into its slender resting place. Questions clouded her eyes as she handed it to him.

Closing his hand over the round circlet, he stepped back, everything he wanted to say clogging his throat as it all tried to emerge simultaneously. He cleared his throat and turned away, the pain of separation slicing like a sword through his gut.

"Killian?" There was worry in her tone, and he knew it would be only a few seconds more before she was truly upset.

"Marry me, Swan." The words spilled out, quiet and congested, and he hadn't even bothered to turn around and actually ask her. She was right that he was terrible with women, or maybe just terrible with her. He grunted quietly in displeasure, mentally castigating himself for his lack of chivalry, but before he could turn around and ask her properly, she had made her way to his front.

"Hey, whatever it is, it's okay. Is it about the inscription? Do you think you might be wrong about it?"

"You didn't hear me," he stated, rolling the ring back and forth. The inside of her band was clean, with no visible engraving, and he was glad his memory had always been reliable.

"Hear what?" she asked tentatively, head slightly tilted.

"I said 'Marry me, Swan'."

Her eyes widened, and he could tell it was the last thing she might have expected him to say, although he wasn't sure why. There was no way to know what she was thinking, if she was still torn between his current and elder self, and if she would reject him as a matter of principle.

She stuttered a moment and the words that had gotten stuck in his throat suddenly came free like a plug popping from an upturned bottle of rum, rushing out like the liquid itself.

"So there's never any doubt. So you won't return to your time and ask yourself if my attachment was genuine. I… I won't remember, but you will, and I don't want you to question whether or not I loved you as much now as I will then. Marry me, Emma. And you'll know for all time that you were always first. That Milah…"

She placed a hand over his mouth, stopping his words with her fingers. His lips kissed her fingertips of their own accord; he couldn't stop himself when any part of her skin touched his mouth. Her nose had turned a lovely shade of pink and she swallowed thickly, blinking back the tears that were just beginning to appear, one such drop teetering on the end of an eyelash, as if trying to decide whether or not to fall. She dropped her hands to her belly, staring at her empty ring finger when the dangling drop released, splashing on the backside of her palm.

His heart was breaking again, only this time it was from being so full of love for the only woman he could ever see as wife, for the child he would have to wait centuries to meet. They were his family, and he would gladly give them up to keep them safe, but he was dying inside at the mere thought of it.

Brushing the back of his hand across his eyes, he held out her ring, frozen, ready to place it on her finger if she should offer her hand.

"I love you," she whispered, head still down. "I don't know how it's possible to love you more than I already did when I came through, but I do." She shook her head, frowning; it took all he had not to cry out waiting for her answer, expecting the worst.

She suddenly looked up, green eyes fiercely blazing. "Yes, of course. Of course I'll marry you. I agreed to once before and I'd do it over and over again, Killian Jones, in any time."

His held breath slowly released like a dying wind. Gods, he loved this woman, and to know he had earned her love and respect in return... He slipped the ring on her outstretched finger, then gathered her into his arms and kissed her soundly; only able to show her with his actions what he didn't have the words to convey.

He could taste her tears as they rolled into their locked mouths, or perhaps they were his tears, the saltiness only adding to the grief he was feeling at having to stay behind while his family moved on without him. She kissed him with abandon, her earlier restraint notably absent, and he could taste her own grief, the grief that comes from the promise of a long separation.

They broke apart and he held her, their child pressed tightly between them. He or she bounced a few times, as if trying to dislodge his body since he was compressing the little one's space, but ultimately settled down, and Killian hugged not only his wife, but his child too.

Several minutes later, mostly composed, he pulled back, ready to face the last part of their journey together.

She smiled, although it didn't reach her eyes. "So you were about to tell me the answer to the inscription."

"So I was. I daresay one good thing about this; we won't have to arrange for a minister before sending you back." His comment was meant to draw her out of her melancholy, and it worked, her expression lifting somewhat.

"Leave it to you to find the only bright spot in the midst of this." She waved her hand around and then used the corner of her collar to dry her eyes.

"Aye, well, maybe not the only bright spot. You're about to return to your family, and to me, I might add."

Her eyes lifted in a flash of wet lashes, their stormy green clearly proclaiming her emotions. "God, Killian, it's not the bright spot for _me_. My part is easy. It's _you_, knowing what you have to endure. It's... it's... more than anyone should be asked to do. And you're just standing there, making jokes. And I can't..."

She turned away, hiding her face in her hands, and cried. He came up behind her and held her, trying not to think of what it would mean to be apart from them, trying not to remember what it was like to place his hands and his head on her belly, letting his child communicate with him the only way he or she could, trying not to recall how it felt to live every day as her husband like they had during the curse, how fulfilling it was even when they weren't in perfect sync.

"Listen, love," he whispered into her ear, "Don't trouble yourself on my account. You know I survive, you know that it's you who redeems me in future." He turned her body toward him, swallowing thickly as he tried to put his own heartache away and focus on hers. "We know how this turns out."

He watched her nod through her tears, forcing them back and visibly gaining her composure. When she had it, she straightened and looked him in the eyes. "You're right. Of course you're right. We know how this ends." She sniffed a couple of times and then lifted her mouth in a tiny smile, pushing her worry aside, probably behind one of her walls. A part of him was glad she could set aside her anxieties rather easily; he'd seen her do it several times before when her immediate attention was required for the task at hand. But he was sad too, that his Swan was so adept at building those walls to begin with, that she had been hurt enough times to be skilled in hiding how she truly felt.

"So what's the answer to the inscription?" she asked, bringing him back to the present.

He braced himself and took her hand, in case the floor opened up and sucked her into it. "Neither can eternity extinguish it." He closed his eyes, waiting for the telltale blast of air, and although a slight breeze began to blow, nothing else happened. He opened his eyes to see Emma looking at him quizzically.

"That's it? But how do you know?"

He inhaled a couple of times and squeezed her hand, assuring himself they were still in the same place they had been. "It was something I learned during the curse," he said.

"What's that then?"

"Aside from learning I could be happy with you anywhere," he said knowingly, her own lips curling in a sweet smile, "Our wedding rings were engraved. Mine had 'An age cannot sate love'. Yours, 'Neither can eternity extinguish it.'"

"Hmm. I never noticed." She looked down at her ring with new eyes, and began twisting the circlet off her finger again.

"It's possible you wouldn't have been able to see it had you looked. And it's not there now," he added, before she went to the trouble of removing it completely.

"Well, I'm positive we didn't engrave our rings when we were married, so I wonder when that took place?" She caught his eyes again, and he was struck by their beauty, how so many different shades of one color could be present in their ever-changing depths.

"I have no memory of it either. Perhaps it was just part of the test," he speculated.

"So the question is, now that we know the answer, where's the door?"

As soon as her words were spoken, a great laugh resounded throughout the grayness, a laugh that enveloped their surroundings so completely that he felt like a rat trapped in the hold of a ship. Fortunately, it was a sound he recognized for all its jocundity. He looked at Emma, and saw that she recognized it as well. The gray background began to shimmer, slowly dissolving into Mac's parlor at his house in the Enchanted Forest.

"I knew you'd figure it out!" Mac said cheerfully.

Killian stood stock-still, staring unbelievingly at the sight before him. Mac, the seer who guarded the waterfall door, in the guise of the elderly nobleman Killian had always assumed he was, sat comfortably in his chair, feet propped and grinning widely. He held his pipe in one hand, the smoke curling from the bowl in a lazy plume, while his other gently stroked the fur of the white fox.

"Mac," Emma said with astonishment, "What is all this?" Her brow was furrowed as she looked around, doing her best to take it all in. He completely understood her struggle; Mac's appearance was an unexpected shock to say the least.

"You see, Mrs. Jones, you and the Mr. have made it to the door of time, as I quite imagined you would." He gestured proudly toward a large grandfather clock that sat at one end of the room. Killian remembered it from the first time he'd been in the parlor. It was an exquisite piece, producing a rhythmic tick-tock that could lull anyone into a daze, and with a rich resounding gong as it marked the passing hours.

"You knew…" Killian began, wondering just how involved Mac had been throughout their trials.

"Yes, and you're right back where you started. Though it may seem terribly dull, that's often the case in situations such as these." He smiled, nodding his head thoroughly, as though speaking from a wealth of experience.

"Situations such as what?" Emma asked, "You mean the door was here the entire time?" Mac didn't respond, only watched her with interest. "Then what was the point of getting the key?" she demanded. The color in her cheeks heightened, and he could only imagine the strife going on within her as she pictured all she'd experienced over the last several months. It wasn't quite the same for him; any amount of time spent with her was a gift, and he'd gladly relive all the horrors just to be by her side indefinitely.

"Well, that's just it. You're not the same person you were when you left here all those months ago." He smiled again, glancing at her belly. "I offer you my congratulations."

She ignored him, and Killian watched her lean forward a bit, body tense. "You mean to tell me you could have let us through the door when we first came here, and saved me months of worry, of hardship… of… torture even?"

"Quite. But think carefully, Mrs. Jones. Is that something you really mean to say? If I had saved you all the difficulty, you wouldn't have experienced the joy either." He nodded at her belly again. "Can you honestly say you regret it?"

Emma subsided, and Killian grabbed her hand. He knew what she must be feeling, what she was trying to say, but leave it to Mac to get to the heart of the matter. He watched as her features softened; no, his Swan didn't regret one moment of it. He tightened his grip; neither did he.

Mac laughed. "Oh, Mrs. Jones. Lighten up and think. What have you learned?" he asked pointedly.

"So this… adventure… was all a learning experience?" Killian interjected, trying to take some of Mac's attention away from Emma so she'd have a minute to ingest what she'd been told. She always required time to work through shocking revelations, and now that she was pregnant, she was wont to react with more spirit than usual. He had learned the hard way not to press her in such situations—something Mac obviously hadn't learned yet, even should he care to.

"Let's call it an opportunity," Mac answered, putting his pipe to his lips and inhaling deeply, the cherry on the end glowing in the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

"Fine. An opportunity," she said heatedly. "What about Zoso? Is he going to come back for Killian?" Emma's hand twitched, but Killian knew she wasn't feeling their link, too intent on the answer to her question.

"I shouldn't think so. The key was never his to claim. He'll find himself with quite a pounding headache when he wakes up, but he'll have no memory of his time 'in between.' He might remember you from before, but it will be like a dream. And of course the disturbance in time no longer exists, so there will be no reason to seek you out. He has his own destiny to fulfill, as you have yours."

The white fox lifted its head, and Mac obliged by scratching under its jaw. It stretched, languidly pushing its front paws forward in a delicate lengthening of its spine. Only its spine continued lengthening, growing upward until they were staring wide-eyed at Mac's wife Isobel, dressed in a pure white gown.

Killian and Emma both started simultaneously. Isobel was the white fox? Killian thought back to the first time he had met them both, how Mac had said he and Isobel were different. Only it hadn't registered then that Isobel was as much of a shape-shifter as Mac since she had only appeared as the tiny violet-eyed woman, whereas Mac had taken several differing forms.

"Wh-what…" Emma stuttered, "You mean, you could come and go? Are we still 'in between' or not?"

Mac smiled again, nodding with the affectionate look of a mentor upon his pupil. "I can go… wherever I'm needed." He drew on his pipe again, savoring the taste of the tobacco, looking very much like a man who was enjoying himself immensely, at their expense. Killian felt his own anger begin to rise, but held it in check for now, letting Emma ask what she would.

Mac gestured to the settee next to him. "I can see you have questions. Would you like to sit down?"

Emma nodded dumbly, and Killian released her, sitting down heavily beside her. Isobel smiled mischievously, catching Mac's eye with an upturned brow, and silently left the room.

"Yes, technically we are still 'in between'. My home is… malleable. As for your other question, let me answer it this way." Mac placed his pipe in a small bowl sitting on the table next to his chair, and slowly stood up, grunting a little with the effort. His face transformed into the face of another man, his body shortening, his hair receding from his hairline.

Emma gasped. "No… You can't be… Allen?"

Allen? Killian couldn't remember who Allen was, but it was obvious from Emma's reaction that the mention of his name infuriated her. Mac sat down, transforming back to his usual self as soon as his backside hit the plush chair.

She jumped up, leaning forward as she threw her words at a flinching Mac. "You bastard! You shot me?! That… hurt!"

"Shot you?" Killian repeated. Then the name Allen illuminated in his mind, and he remembered what David had told him at the hospital during the curse. David and Emma had responded to a domestic call at Allen's home. The man had had a gun and when he had seen Emma, had become very agitated about her pregnancy. A ringing telephone had startled him into pulling the trigger, wounding Emma in the process.

Killian very nearly joined her side, advancing forward until he was hardly sitting, barely holding himself in check to see if she would take care of the meddling seer herself. If not, he was very close to punching the smirk right off the man's face, elderly gentleman or no.

"Hold on, hold on." Mac put up his hands, warding off her potential attack. "Please sit down and let me explain."

Emma inhaled, nostrils flared, and sat down slowly, controlling herself with visible effort, although her jaw remained clenched, and her eyes didn't leave Mac's face. Mac wasn't going to get out of this easily.

Mac picked up his pipe again along with a match, striking it and relighting the tobacco, ignoring Killian's angry Swan. It was several seconds before he answered, and Emma's breathing began to abate, despite her original fury. Killian wished he would remember the technique for managing Emma in the future, but knew he'd have to relearn her ways once they met the second time.

"You only had a certain amount of time to complete the trial. You were already in your sixth month of pregnancy, and you still had to face the Balgienit. There's only so much you can do once you're so far along. I was merely there to encourage you two to move a little more quickly. And it worked too," he said a little too confidently. He looked over at Killian, addressing him. "The incident with Allen prompted your realization."

A worm of guilt wove its way around Killian's gut, and he didn't respond; the blasted seer was right. The incident with Allen had shown Killian that he'd rather live in a cursed world with her, than an un-cursed world without. They were a team, true loves, and it didn't matter _how_ they were together, only that they were. It had taken nearly losing her to see it.

Emma turned to gaze at Killian, her anger dissolving into a sea of battling emotions. Part of her blamed him for taking so long to figure out the curse, the other part ashamed for feeling that way. Sometimes he wished he couldn't read her so well.

"Hey, it's done," she consoled. "I meant it when I said you couldn't have known. I don't blame you," she said quietly, doing her best to hide her true feelings. He shook his head and sat back, hating that he had let her down, but not wanting to argue with her.

She watched him a moment more, then turned back to Mac.

"Was any of it real?"

"Oh yes, all of it. I am by no means in control of what happens 'in between'. I warned you that you could be stuck there forever, and it's quite true. Isobel and I… we had the ability to help, and we did."

Emma inhaled and exhaled noisily. "I hate to admit it, but the white fox… Isobel… did get us out of a couple of _situations_. So I guess we should be thanking you," she said begrudgingly, as though speaking out of obligation more than anything. Killian felt the same, and an answering smile touched his lips, although he suppressed it, not wanting her to misunderstand and think he was mocking her.

Mac nodded deeply with a knowing eye that acknowledged her understandable conflict, and everyone sat quietly for a few moments before Isobel slipped into the room with a tray holding teacups and a plate of cakes, setting it down on the low table in front of the settee.

.

.

Emma couldn't remember a time when she'd been so torn between conflicting emotions. Scratch that. She could. Many times. Only it had been Killian who had always been at the heart of any of her conflicts. Killian and all his paradoxes. He was watching Mac with a thoughtful expression, although she could see he was still brooding somewhat from his belief that she blamed him for the curse. She didn't, and had told him so once before, but his own insecurity trumped her declaration of truth, and she knew from experience that she'd have to wait for time to reveal it to him.

Emma didn't have much of an appetite, but she bent forward and took one of the cups, putting it to her lips and tasting a very mild cider, slightly alcoholic, but nothing that would endanger her baby. It was delicious, and she swallowed half of it before setting it back down and leaning forward.

"Alright. Another question. What happened to the Piper?"

"I do believe you and Mr. Humbert arranged his death quite competently," he said, bending forward to lift one of the cakes to his mouth. It crumbled when he bit into it, dusting his vest with a smattering of crumbs. "Good riddance. He was forever trying to trap people in his lair. Isobel and I have had to get involved on more than one occasion to rescue those who've come under our protection."

"Or who you've sent to that accursed place," Killian said under his breath, catching Emma's eye. She absolutely agreed with him, but it was unimportant at the moment.

"What happens to all the people stuck there?" She had been wondering about Graham since she and Killian had made their hasty exit through the portal the fox, no Isobel, had opened.

"You mean what happened to Mr. Humbert?"

"And Milah, what happens to Milah?" Killian added quietly. His expression was cloudy, asking after the woman out of feigned loyalty, not attachment. There was a hopefulness in his eyes, as though the answer to the question might hold the key to his being able to avoid the dark-haired beauty rather than allow their fates to be forever entwined.

"Ah yes, a complicated past, or perhaps future, you have, Mr. Jones," Mac answered, but acknowledged the unspoken question with a meager shake of his head. "Everyone called to the Piper's compound will return to the place they came from. Milah and Graham have had their hearts crushed, which resulted in their deaths. Their bodies will return to the place where they were buried, and their essence will return…" Mac looked up from brushing the crumbs off his vest into his hand… "Better left alone. All humans question what happens after death, and even if I should enlighten you, it's not something you'd be able to fully comprehend."

"So that's it, Graham just goes back to being dead like he was before," Emma said impassively. She had hoped that maybe Graham would get a second chance at life, although if Graham did, then so would Milah, and she couldn't imagine what kind of hell that woman would unleash if she didn't die, or if she returned from the dead.

"I should hardly think it's as simple as all that. You and he were given a chance to say goodbye. The questions he had about his life, about his impact on you, will no longer plague his soul, and he can rest in peace. That's as much of a gift as any you've received on this journey, Mrs. Jones."

Emma sat back, chastened. Even if Graham hadn't gained his life back, he had gained his dignity, and she had been able to let go of him in the most genuine way she knew. She glanced down at her empty wrist where his shoelace had lain for so long; the white skin having darkened to just a shade below the rest of her arm, so that it was barely noticeable.

"Alright. What about the opals? They were embedded in the walls of the tunnels on the way to your house, and in the Balgienit's lair. Then, when I cut my way out of its body, several fell to the ground," she explained.

"Opals are interesting stones. They prefer water. Did you know that?" Mac asked, ignoring her question.

"Of course," Killian answered, eyes lighting up with the confidence of a man who knows his trade. Mac inclined his head toward him, looking pleasantly surprised.

"They carry the colors of all the other stones combined, and they have the ability to remember. The stones come from the segments of the Balgienit's body; they are infused with timelessness and memory, since memory is the only thing that truly surpasses the divide between the worlds."

"Ok, you lost me. What do you mean 'memory is the only thing that surpasses the divide between the worlds'?"

It was Killian who answered her. "Your memory is all that remains when you pass from one world to the next. It explains how Milah remembered me and Graham remembered you when we were in the Piper's compound."

She nodded, taking a deep breath. Not only did the memories remain in the minds of those who had passed, but memories were all a person left behind of himself for those who loved him.

"Now, is there anything else, Mrs. Jones?" Mac asked, setting down his pipe and pulling his feet off the low stool, about to get up.

"Sure. Lots. Like what happens once I go through the door? Does Killian have to drink the potion? Is there any way to change his future and we still meet?" Killian placed his hand on top of hers; she knew he wanted to know the same thing.

"It's unnecessary for me to answer those questions. And if you think about it, you already know the answers, and if you don't, it's only a small matter of time before you do." He stood up and held out his hands. She placed hers in his and he pulled her up. "Now, Mrs. Jones, I will take my leave. You need only open the door of the grandfather clock and step through. You will emerge a moment after you left, so you don't have to worry that anyone has lived for months in a constant state of anxiety." He winked, and the expression on his face indicated that he was waiting for some kind of reaction to his statement.

"What? It was you!" she yelled, as it dawned on her exactly what Mac had said all those months ago when she sat in his parlor crying in his arms, trying to work out what to do with a growing love for Jones while Killian was stuck in the future waiting for her. "You were the one who encouraged me to look at Killian as two separate people. I was already struggling with the question of whether or not I was cheating on my husband!" she pressed.

Killian stiffened beside her, and she placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly but not taking her eyes off the scheming seer.

"How about that? So I did," he said cheerfully, waving away her "why" before she could ask it. "You'll find out soon enough. Although I'm sure you can see that although our experiences shape our thoughts and behaviors, they don't change who we are."

It was true. Damn the man, he spoke the truth. She could see clearly that she loved Killian in the future, with a past full of regret, and she loved Killian now, young and untouched by betrayal. His future self was more refined maybe, definitely more settled, but the man beside her was still Killian Jones, _her _Killian Jones, and it didn't matter what time in his history she occurred. She would recognize him in any time, and would love him anywhere.

"And you couldn't have told me I would return to the same moment I left before now?" she asked with a sarcastic edge.

"I _could _have, but I didn't. Hate me all you want," he chimed, smiling widely, and she found she couldn't hate him even if she tried. He really was an endearing old man, manipulative, but endearing, and it _had_ all worked out in the end.

He embraced her briefly, before turning her loose and calmly exiting the room into the hallway. She watched the empty doorway, unable to face Killian, listening as she heard Mac's and Isobel's voices and the unmistakable slam of a door. She and Killian were alone.

She turned to find him standing next to her, watching her expectantly. It was more than she thought she could bear, and she turned her face away as her eyes once again filled with tears.

He was in a similar state, obvious by the way he barely choked out, "Swan."

She threw herself into his arms, and he clutched her to his chest, burying his face in her hair while she buried hers in his neck. She took one last deep breath, inhaling his still tropical-smelling skin, bringing with it the memories of the last three days, of what would be their last time together before three hundred years separated them. She couldn't imagine what he was going through, how he was going to manage their time apart.

She clutched the collar of his leather jacket, nearly speaking into his chin. "Babe. Take the potion as soon as you get back. Don't wait! I won't be there to… to… make it better for you. And I know you, you'll drink too much and brood. The sooner you take the potion, the sooner this ends for you and one day you'll wake up in the Enchanted Forest, and it will be me with a knife at your throat."

His mouth wavered in a smile. "Aye, lass. And that will be a fine day indeed." He bent down and opened his pack, rifling through a front pocket until he came up with a handful of beans.

"Here. Take these. You can use them to get back to the Enchanted Forest with your family, with me," he added, holding them out to her.

"Two. Just give me two. You keep the rest. You'll likely have more reason to use them." He didn't protest, probably figuring she was right, the practical side of his mind kicking in.

"Come on then, love." Pulling her toward the clock, she found herself resisting, trying to delay the inevitable.

They crossed the room much sooner than she would have liked, and rather than look her pirate in the face, she stared at the clock. It was much bigger up close, with intricate carvings and gold detailing on the numbers and hands. Killian reached forward and grasped the handle, about to pull it open.

"Wait!" she cried, grabbing his arm. "I can't just leave you like this." Her feet wouldn't move, as if her toes were trying to grasp the ground to remain with him always. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, matching the sound of the seconds as they ticked and tocked with each swing of the pendulum.

His blue eyes shone with unshed tears; he was barely holding it together, for her sake.

"Go. I'll be on the other side of that door, waiting for you," he said gruffly.

She swallowed thickly and nodded. He was right. He would be waiting for her.

"And I have a child to meet." He smiled, and a tear fell loose from his eyes, nestling in his beard as he placed his hand on her belly. Their child kicked against his father's palm in excited recognition like he or she always did, and Killian smiled in brief happiness.

She nodded through her tears, unable to tear her eyes away from his. He held her captive, like he had since she'd met him, both times. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly.

"Go, love."

His hand pulled open the door of the clock, and the pendulum paused in mid-swing, stopping to the left side of the box. He stepped aside and nudged her forward with his shoulder. Still linked to her husband by her tight grasp on his hand, she watched as the back side of the clock gave way into a black veil, and she felt afraid, truly afraid as the thought, _what if he isn't there when you get home_, threatened to keep her from ever stepping forward.

He must have seen her waver, because he squeezed her fingers and let go, whispering, "I love you, Emma Jones, I swear I'll be on the other side, waiting."

Holding onto his promise, telling herself if she could trust anyone, she could trust him, she blinked back her tears and nodded, stepping through the door of time.

* * *

**;D Alright, guys, we are hurtling toward the end of this story! Please drop me a line if you haven't (and even if you have-love hearing from my regular reviewers too!), and have a very happy New Year! Cheers!~DD**


	33. Acceptance

_So sorry, guys, I intended to update sooner, but I've been exhausted, and that makes for poor writing. I hope this is worth the wait!_

_Beta-read by my adored friends lethemoirai and Commandante Theresa._

_Previously, in _An Age Cannot Sate Love:

_Killian tells Emma the answer to the key of knowledge found in the Balgienit's key box: "Neither can eternity extinguish it". They are transported to the door of time, the grandfather clock found in Mac's parlor. Mac is present and answers several questions about what's been happening during their time 'in between'. They learn that Mac and Isobel (who is the white fox) can come and go, and so can their home, meaning they are still 'in between' and still need to pass through doors to get out. Killian and Emma share a tearful goodbye and the chapter ends with Emma stepping through the door of time._

_This chapter picks up about five minutes after Emma steps through the door. If you're confused, pop back to Chapter 26: Torn in Two, and read the italicized section referring to the leather-bound journal Killian finds on the Jolly Roger, and then to the end of Chapter 17: Bad Idea._

* * *

Chapter 33: Acceptance

* * *

Killian dropped a heavy arm over his eyes to block the rays of brightening sunshine streaming in his face. His forearm struck with a little more force than he'd intended, and he winced with the impact; he had one hell of a headache. Noisy birds sang to each other over the gorge, raucous and cheerful in the early dawn. Suddenly wishing he wouldn't have left the window open the previous night, he drew the wool blanket over his face, breathing in the musty-smelling fibers. The thunderstorm must have passed last night, he realized with relief, since he and Swan would most likely be traveling toward the door of time after breakfast.

Last night. Gods, what a bloody mess. He had spent the evening drinking, the change in air pressure from the storm progressively growing uneasy in his gut, adding to the burnt taste of frustration that mixed poorly with a nearly full bottle of wine and a full flask of rum. Groaning loudly at the rude awakening and the unwelcome thoughts, he turned over and curled into a shape resembling a coiled rope, knocking his head against the hard ground, the resulting pain merely catching hands with the ache in his heart in easy camaraderie.

Swan had quite adequately rejected him, leaving his room in a flurry of frustration and tears. Perhaps he had thought it would be easy to convince her to renounce her future life once she'd admitted her feelings, but no, the brazen lass was stubborn and fiercely loyal. That small declaration of devotion to her family branded her as even more desirable in his eyes, damn her. Loyalty and trust held hands like his throbbing head and his aching heart, and if he could win hers... what a man he might be.

Of course, he reasoned, he would win her loyalty and trust; it would just take a few centuries.

He flipped over, scrubbing his face with his hands. It'd be best to face Swan first thing and make amends, perhaps show her he was more than capable of controlling his baser urges.

Hard ground. Noisy birds. His eyes snapped open as his mind registered what his body had been trying to tell him.

A canopy of treetops greeted him with their waving branches, indifferent to his utter confusion. Treetops? No, he was quite certain he'd retired to bed in his room.

Sitting up with a feeling similar to what Swan must have experienced when she found herself in his time, he studied his surroundings, seeing his discarded pack on the forest floor lying next to his bedroll. Swan was nowhere in sight. In fact, nothing was in sight except the happy forest, slowly buzzing to life with the brightening dawn.

"Bloody hell," he said to himself, gripping his head that continued to pound like a woodpecker persistently knocking at a tough piece of bark. A tiny caterpillar paused in mid-inch at his words, turning its head to and fro as if trying to decide where the sound had come from. "I'm not talking to you!" he grumped, lifting his hand to flick the beastie off his blanket. He stilled instead, noticing a small bottle that slowly rolled away from his pallet, dislodged by his movements.

"Swan," he muttered with a disbelieving shake of his head. He recognized what must be the memory potion she had been referring to during their argument. "So she thinks I'm just going to drink this and go back to Milah, does she? Not bloody likely." He stood up, packing his blanket and looking for landmarks that would tell him his general location and subsequently how far from Mac's he had traveled.

It was several minutes before he realized he was near Alistair Astley's secret cave. There was no way he could have traveled that far in one night; it would have taken at least a couple of days. Had she somehow magicked him here?

Clenching his jaw in frustration and struggling to think through his pain-riddled mind, he trotted a few steps in Emma's direction before realizing it would be quicker to return to the Jolly and enlist the help of his men. If she was truly a couple of days ahead of him, then he had to move quickly if he wanted to find Mac's house again, overtake her, and hopefully persuade her to let him go with her.

====o0I0o====

"Oh, gods. Milah," he breathed. His nearest crewman, Jonathan, looked up in surprise, his greedy eyes flicking to the doorway.

The door to the tavern swung wide as the farmer's wife entered, mischievous eyes searching the crowded room until they met his, long legs striding forward. Milah was a woman who knew what she wanted. To most onlookers, she doubtlessly appeared brazen and bold, impish gaze promising a night of fun. But to him she seemed tired and worn, hiding her dissatisfied life behind a too-wide smile, behind a too-confident step.

She would most likely keep her distance, always somewhat wary when he returned from one of his expeditions, feeling her way around him until she should re-establish herself as his main interest. He wondered if it was always so with a woman who didn't quite know her place in the life of the man she admired. He hadn't bothered to assuage her reticence, as he hadn't quite known himself how he felt about her, having allowed their relationship to develop slowly.

But the thought of furthering that relationship with Milah brought bile to the back of his throat. Only the memory potion could set him on the path toward the dark-haired woman, it would take forgetting what he had shared with Emma. Milah couldn't be compared to his Swan, who was as gorgeous as she was bold, but not the kind that required the attention of men. Emma's rather calm self-assurance in a difficult and dangerous situation had more than earned his admiration, she had earned his love. Images of her striking green eyes holding his in triumph, in sass, in pleading, and finally in guilt-ridden sorrow passed through his mind like a hard wind blowing through the harbor while he sailed the constricted space, threatening to send his ship into another as he attempted to dock.

One thing was certain, he definitely wasn't drunk enough to deal with Milah now. Ignoring the splash as he carelessly refilled his tumbler, he downed a shot, then one more, letting his face drop to his bent arm as the quick ingestion of the alcohol made his head swim.

"Whatcha drinkin', boys?" she announced over the din. He blearily lifted a head as a chorus of "Milah!" and "Let me get you a seat," and "I'll give you a seat right here," along with the pat of a knee, went around the table in noisy greeting.

Her arched eyebrow framed a sly expression as she slid around to his side. She used one hand to caress his ear, the other finding its way down the open collar of his shirt and lower still, until she was bending over him, pressing her ample cleavage into his back.

"Miss me, Jones?"

He shuddered; it seemed she had no intention of keeping her distance this time, and something about the name 'Jones' from her mouth just didn't sound right. Quite possibly because the blonde who'd broken his heart had seen fit to call him by the same epithet.

The pull of her lips grazed his cheek as she smiled, most likely imagining the tremor through his body as some sort of affirmative response to her wandering fingers.

"Milah. Perhaps you'd kindly remove your hand from the waistband of my trousers," he said wearily, forcefully removing her arms from his body.

She pouted prettily, accepting the challenge of winning his affections with a slight narrowing of her eyes, and obliged, pulling up a chair beside him and signaling one of the serving women to bring her a glass.

"So how'd it go returning that… woman… to her realm?" she asked coolly, eyes on the bottle and trying to feign interest. But her wrist was too tense as she poured her drink, and her glass jumped with the too-tight grip.

"Oooh. Yeah, Cap'n, tell 'er how it went," teased Jonathon. The crewman had an eye for Milah, and had been the one to offer her a seat on his lap.

Killian calmly stood up, swaying a little as the room wobbled around him. He wasn't in the mood for jests, and rather than engage in what was likely to be a bit of banter at his expense, he pushed his way through the crowd to the door. Comments flew behind his retreating back, "Touchy bastard," "Had no idea he had it so bad," "E'll be back to his ol' self in no time. Jes give him another week of drownin' his sorrows in…"

The door slammed behind him, the nighttime silence enveloping him in its cool embrace. One thing about a port town at night, most everyone was either inside a tavern entertaining themselves, or had already found their beds for the evening, wherever they may lay.

He did have it bad; he was a disaster. It had been almost six weeks ago that he and his skeleton crew had scoured the forest for Mac's home and any trace of Emma, having found neither, all vanished into thin air. His men studied him with surreptitious glances, whispering about whether or not their Captain had finally lost it. They had met Emma only the one time, and couldn't understand what had befallen him. Only Jamison seemed to sympathize with the state he was in.

He shuffled toward his ship, looking forward to burying himself in his comfortable bed and letting his dreams transport him into adventures shared with Swan, even if nearly every one ended with her being gracelessly ripped out of his arms.

Halfway down the alley leading to the Jolly, a brisk hand on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts of his evening plans.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you were avoiding me." Milah demanded, direct as always.

"No need to avoid you. Not when you lack claims on me," he mumbled, continuing his slow amble, hoping this conversation would be over quickly and she would leave him be.

She leapt in front of him like a rogue wave looming over the side of his ship and just about to break over the rail, blocking his path with the same look of impending destruction. "Honestly. You spend a few weeks accompanying that strumpet to wherever, and you come back a pining mess. What the hell did she do to you?" Her tight mouth melted into a purse-lipped smirk. "Although I daresay if you're in that state, she must have rejected your advances."

He hadn't realized he'd moved until her throat was clutched under his tightening grip, her body sandwiched between his and the hard side of the building. "Don't let me ever catch you calling her 'strumpet' in my presence, woman," he threatened.

Her eyes glimmered. A_rousal_, some primitive part of his brain whispered. Milah had always liked the hard captain lurking just beneath the surface of his behavior, the one that emerged in times of drunkenness and/or extreme anger. Milah encouraged that part of him with her curt and combative nature, and he wondered if she actually preferred him as such. Of course, _he_ didn't prefer himself that way.

Her body softened against his, and her fingers fumbled with the edge of his shirt, pulling it from his trousers to slide her warm hands across his chest. He closed his eyes and relaxed his grip on her throat, surrendering to the feeling for a moment, the rum diminishing his better judgment.

Her movements inspired a memory of Emma writhing beneath him, barely awake and responding to who she thought was his future self with a fire he had only guessed she contained. His loins tightened in response and he let out a shaky sigh. He had to get away from Milah.

"Left you a bit frustrated, huh Captain? Here, let me..." He could hear the appeal in her voice, her face lowering until she was kissing his palm, hands fiddling with the laces of his trousers, uncaring if someone should wander outside and find them. "We've been dancing around each other for months. Let's end it. Here. Now." The idea of taking her in an alley was vaguely intriguing, but Emma kept intruding, almost mocking him with the question, _is this what you really want?_

It would be easy too, so easy to find comfort in her willing arms. Perhaps he could imagine she was Emma… since Emma wouldn't be a part of his life for centuries. But the answer was an unequivocal "No." Milah wasn't who he wanted and never would be.

He released her, putting a modicum of space between them and running a hand through his hair, agony seizing through his body and releasing in a dark moan. Her hands rested against his chest, waiting, calculating. He couldn't afford to anger the woman past the point of her desiring to involve herself with him, else he risked losing Emma forever. Gods, it was as if the rogue wave had broken over the railing of his life, washing away everything of consequence.

Calling on his ample experience in convincing debutantes he was the gentleman he appeared to be, just before swiping their jewelry, he lifted an unsteady hand to Milah's cheek. "Forgive me. I'm not myself. Just… just give me a couple of days. I'll meet you in the tavern like always, and we can drink and play cards and…" he swallowed heavily, hating what he was about to say, "And talk about the future."

Her lips stiffened skeptically, but nonetheless lifted to his. He avoided her mouth and kissed her cheek instead.

Anger flashed briefly across her face. "I look forward to it, Captain. Let's hope you're back to your usual self by then." She dropped her hands and turned away.

He lowered his gaze to regard his upheld hands, contemplating what manner of mischief they were capable of when she called his name. He looked up, catching the shrewd gleam in her dark eyes. "I have every intention of winning your heart, Jones. Make no mistake." She raised one brow and smiled, then tossed her head and sauntered away without a backward glance.

"Of that, lass, I'm dreadfully certain," he said quietly as a chill wind brushed across his face.

====o0I0o====

He would never be back to normal again. Emma Swan had imprinted on his life completely, more a part of him than the Jolly Roger herself, something he could never have anticipated. No one had hired them for a job lately, and not knowing of any upcoming soirees in the neighboring kingdoms, many of the crew had found other work, mostly hard labor on nearby farms or ships. Smee and Jamison stayed on; Smee maintained the logbook, and he and Jamison occasionally took the Jolly out to "stretch 'er legs a bit," and most likely to convince Killian to do something other than drink and brood.

Milah had become a permanent fixture on his ship as well, having finally decided to leave Rumple and their son. Her efforts to appear the loving and devoted mistress did not go unnoticed, although he studied her now and again when she was otherwise occupied, sure he caught glimpses of fury peeking out from behind her heavy lids, perhaps wondering to herself if she'd made the right choice after all. Smee's cabin had become her temporary accommodations. Her boldness increased, until he was sure feigning sleep or drunkenness would fail and he would wake up one morning with her in his bed, since he was quite certain she wasn't past taking advantage of him when he was unconscious.

It was only a matter of time before she wormed her way into his life for good. He hated himself, but he hated her more.

One morning, when Milah had been blessedly absent the night before and he had actually been able to sleep from exhaustion and not drunkenness, he ambled to the galley, hoping Jamison could offer something tantalizing for breakfast since he had an appetite for the first time in what felt like ages.

Jamison looked up briefly from the pot he was scrubbing, voice gentle and kind. "How ya feelin' there, son?"

"Definitely been better," Killian replied, pulling down a mug and pouring it full of Jamison's tasty ale before slumping in a nearby chair.

"Ye know I'm not one to say anythin'..." Jamison started.

"Really? Never would have guessed that about you." Kilian's mouth felt stuffed with wool, and he recognized it as a mild form of dehydration, probably from all the drinking. Jamison merely turned his head with a wry glance, using handfuls of water to rinse his pot.

"It's jes that... don' ye think this has gone on long enough?" Grabbing a nearby cloth, he began drying the pot in tidy strokes.

"Save it, Jamison. I know what you're thinking. I'm just waiting for it to get easier, then I promise I'll be back to myself again." He exhaled heavily, taking another draught of ale, letting the heavy liquid replace some of his earlier hunger.

Jamison set the pot aside and stood facing Killian, both hands pressed into the counter separating the galley from the eating area. "And you're certain it will get easier, are ye?" he asked, his mustache twitching with doubt.

Kilian glanced back at the table, tracing a couple of old knife marks with a finger, unable to meet his friend's clear gaze. "Aye, I'm certain," he mumbled, and he could hear the doubt in his own voice.

"I quite liked the lass, immensely. But I had no idea ye were so attached that ye'd swill yer life awa' after havin' known her the short time. Course, I was convinced that she'd most likely stay wit ye, too." He lifted a hand to absently scratch his chin.

"Sometimes I wish you were a bit less circumspect in your observations, _friend._" Killian leaned back, dropping his hands to his thighs. Jamison was right; he had known Emma a short time. But it had been long enough.

"Then what kind of friend would I be?" Jamison turned and pulled down a plate, cutting off a slice of bread from a hearty loaf and adding a hunk of cheese, before pouring his own mug and joining Killian at the table.

"She ran away, Jamison. Left no trace. How could she leave no trace?" A leftover sob that should have long ago been spent fought its way out of his mouth, and he turned to his plate, choking it back as he broke off a corner of the bread and stuffed it in his mouth.

A callous-worn hand descended on top of his outstretched arm, its weight anchoring Killian to his seat. "Come now, son. Put it behind ye. I know it won' be a comfort to ye yet, but there's others who'd as soon see ye move on." His face held soft concern, and Killian instantly knew what he was implying, or who, rather.

"Milah."

"Aye, Milah. She's been quite attentive these past few weeks, and I've seen her coax more than a few smiles out a ye." Jamison took a swig of his ale, sighing loudly in contentment.

"I know," Killian answered quietly. "I'm just not ready to forget." He took another bite of bread even though his appetite had disappeared, forcing it past his throat out of sheer will, and then chased it with a sip of ale to wash it down.

"No one's askin' ye to forget. Only to set it aside for a time."

He slammed his mug on the table. "But that's just it, Jamison! I have to forget if I ever want to see her again!" He hadn't intended to speak so forcefully, but there it was, the one thought that circled in his mind like a raging twister, sucking him up and out of himself completely.

A funny look passed over Jamison's face, and he turned one ear closer, as if he hadn't heard correctly. "What the de'il are ye aboot? How can ye see her again if'n ye forget? I thought the lass vanished."

Killian hadn't told Jamison about Emma being his future wife, nor had he mentioned that in Emma's time he was at least three hundred years old. "A potion, Jamison. She gave me a potion to forget her. She's from my future, see. She's my…" the word stuck in his throat, but he pushed it past his lips, "wife. I have to forget that I met her so I can live through the events that brought our paths together in the first place."

Jamison's mouth hung open, his bottom lip curled like a small worm dangling from a hook. "That is somethin' then. Why'd ye not tell me sooner?"

Killian dropped his head on the table. "Because I haven't wanted to think about it. And it's all I think about."

"I see. And the potion? Where do ye keep it? Tha's pow'rful magic if'n it's real." Something about Jamison's tone caused Killian to raise his head. He caught the small glimmer in his friend's eyes before Jamison hid it behind the rim of his mug.

"What? Are you thinking of dosing me with it when I'm not looking?" he asked suspiciously.

"Am I that obvious?" Jamison retorted with a smile.

"I know I'm a wreck, Jamison. I'll do it. I swear I'll do it. Just give me a little bit longer. I-I'm not ready to forget her just yet."

Jamison nodded, seeming to accept his decision for the time being. "Well, there's a brok'n board on deck that needs fixin'. An overturned bucket over it. Ye know how Smee is with tools, and I could do it, but I think the work will likely do ye good."

Killian was grateful for the change of subject, letting his eyes communicate it. "Aye. You're probably right. I'll get my tools and attend to it shortly."

Jamison nodded again and smiled widely, his mustache curling until the ends nearly reached his nose, probably happy that he'd offered some measure of comfort, just like any endearing father figure would. Killian knew his friend was likely right; he needed to drink the potion and let her go.

But not yet.

Making his way to his cabin, under the guise of getting his tools, he sharpened a fresh quill and opened a small leather-bound book he'd found in a shop the day before. He would write a memoir of Emma Swan and stash it under the deck of the Jolly when he repaired the boards. Giving her up without leaving some kind of trace of her existence was impossible, and in his mind, undeserving toward the lass who had unequivocally stolen his heart.

Dipping the quill in a pot of ink, he began, _To Killian Jones. If you want to understand why you feel as though half your heart is missing…_

====o0I0o====

Killian dropped his tools in a corner and plopped on the edge of his bed in fatigue, using the toe of his boot to scoot a half-filled cask of rum bottles closer. Bending to retrieve a bottle, he pulled the cork from his favorite golden liquid, putting it to his lips and drinking long and deep.

The dulling sensation embraced him in relaxed empathy, and he collapsed against a pile of pillows, staring out the small window at the dusk that eventually faded into moonlight, when he heard the tentative sound of her knock. Milah.

"Killian?"

He hazily wondered how she'd play it. Lately she'd been cool and careful, stepping lightly, trying to 'win' his heart as she'd insisted she would. But he was waiting for the day she tired of the charade; perhaps today was that day. He was past the state of caring, fully drunk now.

She opened the door and stepped in, shutting it firmly behind her and walking over to his table. She had brought a taper, and used it to light a larger candle before blowing it out and setting it down. He just stared at her, her form wavering a bit at the edges, trying to see her as the beauty he had thought she was before he'd met Emma. Now he wondered what he had seen. She was striking, but not remarkable, and certainly nothing like the light-haired Swan who'd soared into his chest and stolen his still-beating heart when she'd flown away.

Milah paced in front of his bed, buzzing with some kind of energy. She took two fingers and walked them along the edge of the coverlet in time with her steps. "Jamison told me about the potion," she chimed, not looking look up, her voice holding a boastful edge.

"Did he?" Killian drew the bottle to his lips to cover his surprise; Jamison only meddled in his life if he was really worried. And telling Milah about the potion very clearly meant that Jamison was throwing his support behind Milah, perhaps counting on her to bring Killian back from the proverbial dead.

"You could drink it. We could make a life together," she suggested quietly, unable to hide the ambition in her whisper. She stopped her pacing to stand in front of him, leaning forward a bit as if trying to decide if she was going to climb up and join him.

"I could. And then you could best me like you've bested your husband. Have me yapping at your heels like half my crew." He smirked, taking a derisory swig of rum to punctuate his frustration.

"You bastard. That's not what this is about!"

"Isn't it? Isn't that what it's always been about?"

She gasped, the sound filling his cabin with its intensity, and looked on the verge of tears, but if he knew Milah, she wouldn't cry, she'd get angry. She didn't deserve his animosity, but by everything the gods held holy, he just wanted to be left alone, for however long it took. He knew his fate. He knew Milah would most likely find the potion and dose him. But he would rebel against that fate for as long as he could.

She seized the taper she'd brought and pitched it at his head. He only barely managed to duck aside, nearly spilling his bottle all over the bed.

"Damn you! No. Don't you see I've fallen for you? Don't you see I love you? God, I don't know how else to prove it to you." Her shoulders rose and fell with her heavy breaths.

"Then stop trying."

Her eyes went very wide, like black pits in the evening light, and she picked up a small glass paperweight and threw it at him. He ducked, a laugh nearly escaping his lips, but he contained it, leaning against the wall impassively, curious as to how far she'd go.

"I've left Rumple and my son to be with you. And still it's not enough." Grabbing a small box from the table, she nearly threw it, but stopped and opened it instead, finding and pocketing the small bottle within before tossing the box in his direction, continuing to search for items to throw and destroy. Bending over, she picked up his pack he'd used while traveling with Emma.

"Milah! Stop!" he shouted, scooting forward.

"Oh, so this is something precious is it? Why? Is it hers?" she mocked.

She must have seen the change in his face because she howled in glorious fury, holding the bag behind her back as she retreated, pulling one object at a time and throwing it at him as he stalked forward. First the pan he'd cooked their meals in, then a small container of jerky, a hook and line he'd used for fishing. Each object bounced off his body and landed on the floor, his boots kicking them angrily out of the way.

Her arm reared back and released a small round object. It flew through the rapidly diminishing space and knocked him clean in the forehead. "Ouch! Bloody hell, woman!" He turned aside, wondering what it was, catching a glimmer on the floorboards between the black spots winking in front of his eyes.

"Good! Maybe you'll get an idea of what I've been going through for the past few weeks!"

Her words barely registered. "The opal?" He bent to pick it up, sure Emma had been the one to have it last. As soon as his hand closed on the hard shimmering stone, he staggered backward, clutching his head as it filled with flashing images.

_A dripping sound and a puddle of water at his feet, looking out of place on the wooden floor of Mac's parlor. The waterfall door._

_Of Mac shaking his hand, a mischievous look in his eye as he said goodbye, "You're going to wake up with one hell of a headbanger."_

_Of Mac placing the opal in a pocket of his bag, "For posterity," he'd said, "May you always behave worthy of the gift she's given you," followed by his own blank stare. _

_Of his heart feeling like it no longer lived in his chest, of Emma's hand dropping his right before she stepped through the large clock, the elusive door of time. _

_Of…_

"The baby!" he shouted happily, feeling instantly sober. What had that sneaky seer said about the opals? That they preserved memories. And this one contained all of his. He now understood that the waterfall door was capable of removing memories, which explained why Zoso wouldn't come after him, and reinforced that the opal Mac had given was truly a gift.

Milah flinched as he rushed forward.

"Baby? What are you talking about, Jones? Who's baby?" Her eyes narrowed in confusion and jealously and he could see her struggle for mastery of her emotions.

Reaching her side, he pressed her into the wall, scraping his scruffy face against her cheek, catching the tremor through her body at the intimate stance. He slipped his hand in her pocket. "Mine," he whispered in her ear.

He held up the small vial. "I don't think we'll be needing this." Letting the vial of memory potion slip from his fingers, it shattered on the floor, the liquid spilling out and rolling toward a discarded shirt, where it was promptly absorbed.

"No!" she screamed. Falling to her knees, she clutched the shirt to her chest, her eyes flitting back and forth as she tried to work out some way to reverse what had just happened. Killian suddenly felt sorry for her, watching all her hopes soak away in an instant, her last prospect to secure a future with him.

"Milah, lass." He bent and took her arm, lifting her carefully. "It's not meant to be, love. My heart is no longer mine to give. And you can find someone who appreciates you for who you are. Believe me, it's worth the wait." He smiled gently, hoping to diminish the sting of rejection.

She shoved him with all her strength, rage replacing despair. "I hate Emma Swan!" she screamed, bolting out the door.

Killian stood in the middle of his cabin with a full complement of memories ranging his very long lifetime. He knew who he was, and he had been given the gift of choice, the chance to change his fate and wait for Emma Swan.

He grabbed a bag of coins and stepped out on deck. The harbor was quiet, the various ships and boats gently rocking on their moorings, creaking softly. "I'm much obliged, Mac," Killian said into the breeze, just in case the meddling seer could hear him.

He thought he heard an answering chuckle on a rising wind, but couldn't be sure. Racing from the Jolly, he headed to the all-night tattoo parlor that tempted drunken patrons from the next-door tavern to relinquish their bodies to the decorative needle-art.

He needed a tattoo on his forearm. And it damn sure wasn't going to have "Milah" stitched across it.

====o0I0o====

Killian never saw Milah again. He would find out later that she had run away with Jonathon, accompanying him to another town on another ship, eventually leaving the common crewman for the captain of another vessel.

* * *

**Ok, everyone! I hope that makes sense. Next chapter is ALL Emma. And for all of you flailing and freaking out about the timeline, pop back to the opening lines of Chapter 1. They state quite clearly what this story is about! ;D Cheers! ~DD**


	34. The Door of Time

_To a couple of guests: 'In between' really happened, but it happened out of time. So when 'in between' Milah says she dosed Killian with the potion, she did—that was part of the original timeline that fits in with the show's canon. What you get at the end of Ch 33 is the beginning of an alternate timeline._

_Length of this story: I really have no idea. It's taking longer than I expected, as usual, but shouldn't be more than 2-3 more chapters._

_Beta-read by the very precise lethemoirai._

_Previously, in _An Age Cannot Sate Love:

_Killian sends Emma through the door of time and wakes up in the __Enchanted_ _Forest__ after having traveled through the waterfall door. He has no memory of his time after his argument with Emma at Mac's house, the fight that occurred back in Chapter 17. Searching everywhere for her, he finds no trace of Emma or Mac's mansion, and reluctantly returns to his life in port, drowning his sorrows in rum. Only Jamison seems to understand Killian's trouble. Milah leaves Rumple and Bae and attaches herself to Killian, nursing him through his heartache all while maintaining separate quarters—Killian won't allow her any closer. In a heated fight, Milah empties Killian's pack from his time with Emma, throwing every article at him. An opal hits him in the forehead, and when he bends to pick it up, he regains all his memories of his time with Emma, including the impending birth of their child. Milah leaves, and Killian chooses a different destiny—one that includes waiting for Emma—and never sees Milah again._

* * *

Chapter 34: The Door of Time

* * *

Emma struggled to see through the thick tears choking her eyes. Just one step. One step through the veil and she'd emerge on Main Street striding toward Granny's. Then she'd spin around in the opposite direction and race home, where Killian would be finishing up a cup of coffee before heading to the Jolly for the day. Maybe he'd be grinning at her with a lop-sided smirk and a half-swagger, unable to hide his delight that she'd decided to come back home and perhaps finish what he always wanted to start before she left for work, no idea she'd been gone for months and not minutes. That is until he saw her belly.

Apprehension slithered through her like a snake on the prowl. Desperately, Emma clutched their growing child still protected in her watery womb, and knew that if Killian had the strength to let them go, then she had the strength to push through. She grasped her last image of him, blue eyes heartbroken and rimmed with tears, full beard darkening his handsome face, the promise on his lips that he would be on the other side. _Damnit! He would be on the other side!_

The veil licked her face the way a cool layer of mist brushes across the skin, refreshing against her warm cheeks and puffy eyes. This is it, she thought, opening her eyes in hopeful expectation that quickly morphed into dismay.

Rather than arriving in Storybrooke as she had hoped, she was staring at an endless hallway, filled with opposing doors every few feet. There were no handles on them, only a smooth plate that indicated each opened from the inside.

Uncertainty gripped her and she whirled around, suddenly wishing Killian were by her side to make this journey with her; maybe they could figure something out with the timeline. But all that greeted her was a solid wooden wall, the dark brown surface hard and impenetrable.

"Damn," she said softly, as the full weight of her decision hit her. There was no going back. Killian would either be at the end of this hallway or not. Blinking furiously to stop the tears of fresh grief, Emma searched for the one emotion that could possibly push all others aside. Curiosity.

Whenever she had to face something she didn't want to face, she would break the obstacle into parts, doing the next thing she knew to do. In this case, it was to put one foot in front of the other, look straight ahead and forge on toward the end of the corridor, keeping her mind purposefully blank. _Just move, Swan._

The sound of a door opening brought her head up with a snap. She wanted to walk past it, to force her feet to hit the concrete floor with the cadence of the runner she had always been, until she was flying down the hallway to the inevitable conclusion of this unexpected journey.

But curiosity won, and Emma stepped to the first door on the left, expecting to see a room.

But it wasn't a room at all. The door opened onto an avenue, just outside a park. Emma looked around, gripping the doorframe in case the hallway should decide to disappear, trying to place the vaguely familiar setting. People rushing to their destinations were dressed in fall clothing, but the trees were still fleshed out, meaning it must be early October or so. It had just rained, and the colors of the swishing cars, the black fence surrounding the park, and the green grass stood out in sharp clean lines.

Boston. She was sure of it. Much of her early childhood had taken place there, including the first time she'd been returned to the state after her foster parents had had a child of their own.

Emma's eyes were drawn to a little girl walking to the corner. She gasped in surprise as she recognized herself at roughly five or six years old, gray slicker too large for her frame, pink backpack snugged on her shoulders. She wore jeans that were rolled up at the feet and shoes that had obviously belonged to at least one other child before her. A memory. Emma was staring into the face of a memory.

Not sure what to think, Emma watched her younger self walk with a reserve uncharacteristic of a five year old. Emma remembered that feeling, her heart breaking for the tiny innocent she'd once been. By that point she'd been in and out of foster homes for almost three years, and those years had mostly been difficult, the kind of difficult where she had never known what to expect, and so she constantly expected the worst. It was easier that way. Of course, she couldn't have known she was utilizing one of the oldest coping mechanisms known to man.

Her younger self waited patiently for her school bus, watching as the cars flew by, jumping back when one came too close to the curb and sprayed water in her direction. She exuded loneliness. Emma couldn't imagine sending a child of that age to a busy bus-stop without adult supervision, but such was her life at that time.

The door began to close and Emma stepped back, once again facing the long corridor and its seemingly endless supply of doors, wondering if each one contained memories. She sincerely hoped not. The idea of reliving some of the more awful aspects of her life made her recoil with aversion.

Before she moved forward again, the door opposite the first swung wide, waiting like a beckoning mouth. Curiosity once more overcame Emma's unwillingness, and she stepped to the threshold, surprised to find the exact same scene as before. There was the wet and busy street. There was tiny Emma, waiting at the corner. The only difference was a man sitting on the wrought-iron bench outside the park fence and nearest the bus stop.

A man she would know anywhere and anytime.

"Killian!" she shouted, rushing forward. But an invisible wall stopped her, and she bounced back into the hallway, the door slowly closing without the assistance of any hand.

"No!" She pummeled her fists in the air. Air that wouldn't budge. The door shut firmly in her face.

Another door on the left swung wide, and Emma's feet propelled toward it, her heart hammering as she wondered what was happening. The same location as before, but on a different day, a dry day. The same young-Emma, now wearing a large overcoat, stood waiting for the bus, the stripped branches of the park's trees providing a twisted backdrop in the gray light.

Emma had trouble placing the exact day but could remember it as though she were looking at a photograph, the memory coming back with the image. Mostly she remembered the feelings, the lonely acceptance of another day, another try at making herself invisible to her classmates and her teachers. The park bench sat empty, as it had most mornings. The door closed.

What Emma would give for that first door on the right to open again, but instead it was the second. Her heart ran away, her body sluggishly trying to catch up with it, her stomach heavy with the taste of the ale she'd drank with Mac and Killian. Would he be there? Half-dreading he wouldn't and half-dreading he would be and she wouldn't be able to touch him, she looked out onto the same wintry scene as that behind the left-hand door. This time, young Emma in her too-big coat was sitting on the curb, smiling up at Killian. He had pulled out a stick of charcoal, holding it up between them with a big smile.

"Have you ever played tic-tac-toe?" he asked fondly.

The little girl shook her head, eyes wide with obvious admiration.

"A young lad taught me, and now I'll teach you." He drew the board on the concrete between them and handed the charcoal to her, explaining the rules and letting her win a few times, to her evident delight.

Emma struggled to blink back tears. Henry had taught him how to play tic-tac-toe one evening in Granny's, using paper napkins and a pen borrowed from Ruby. Killian really was going to make a wonderful father; she couldn't wait to tell him about their baby. The bus arrived and Killian saw his tiny companion safely onto it. Even from that distance, Emma could clearly see the love in his eyes, the adoration in every line of his body. He waved back at the tiny hand wagging in the rear window, watching until the bus was out of sight, then casually walked away, whistling happily.

The door closed.

Emma's mind raced. Was it real? Was she really seeing Killian at a Boston bus-stop? She closed her eyes and took a couple of deep but shaky breaths. As if in answer, her memory surfaced like the back of whale that surfaces the ocean briefly before going back under only to have the observer question what she'd seen.

_A kind man, dark and handsome, sat at the bus-stop everyday, catching her interested glances with a smile behind his newspaper. He brought crayons and a coloring book, opening the page and handing her the box of colors without a word. He taught her how to play tic-tac-toe, never pushing, just slowly gaining her trust. He was the nicest, most wonderful person in the world. The only person to ever show any kind of interest in her, and she wished he would adopt her and become her daddy._

Emma's eyes flicked open. Combing through her mind, not unlike the methods the Piper used, Emma searched for memories of Killian in her past. But for the life of her, she couldn't remember anything except the man at the bus-stop, waiting for her each day, engaging polite conversation and entertaining her with small games. Beyond that, nothing. She didn't know if he somehow stopped showing up, or if he moved away, or if her bus-stop changed. And she couldn't exactly recall his face. All she could recall were kind, blue eyes and black. He wore lots of black, usually with an ocean-colored shirt underneath his jacket.

Another door on the left opened and Emma moved toward it. Another memory. Her younger self sat in the state agency office, shrinking into her chair while the buxom woman behind the desk tried to hide her saddened eyes. Emma's own memory flashed in recognition while she watched the stoic little girl once again waiting for the bad news that was sure to come.

_Mrs. McGuire had big eyeglasses, big like the eyes of a fly in a picture she'd once seen. The fly covered the entire page of the book, and she had jumped back when those shiny black eyes had appeared with just a flip of her hand. She hated flies. _

"_Well, Emma. I have some bad news. The foster family you've been staying with is under investigation for fraud…" Her mouth closed, probably when she realized Emma had no idea what she was talking about, then sighed loudly. "Honey, you'll have to stay at the group home for the next few nights. We'll try to find another family as soon as possible."_

_There. Emma truly wasn't surprised. She knew the Claytons were too good to be true. She stared at the older woman for several long seconds then got up, moving to the hallway until one of the workers from the home should collect her._

Emma nearly cried out at the unfairness of her situation. Seeing herself like this, as an observer, she wanted to reach out and cradle the brave little girl whose haunted eyes sat over a face that smiled all too-infrequently. She hadn't thought about that day in so long. A day like any other in a long string of back and forths between the group home and the foster families, all just par for the course of being in the system.

The door closed. The one directly across from it swung open, and Emma wondered what she might see this time.

Same setting. Emma saw her six-year old self swinging her legs under the chair in the white office, staring up at Mrs. McGuire, who was happily humming to herself while she shuffled papers.

"Well, Emma, dear. Just another minute I'm sure. You'll be so happy."

The little girl didn't respond, just stared forward, looking as though she didn't want to be excited, but her wiggling feet couldn't help but catch the tired woman's smile.

Mrs. McGuire stood up and came out from behind her desk, kneeling down in front of the girl's chair. "Emma, you're here to meet a couple who are interested in adopting you. I've met with them several times, and they seem particularly interested in you."

Emma watched her younger self meet the woman's gaze with a disbelieving stare. As the words registered, the stare transformed into the skeptical meeting of both brows.

Undaunted, Mrs. McGuire continued, "They're unable to have children. So if you like them, we can begin the process of adoption."

A glimmer of hope flashed in the little girl's eyes, but she hid it quickly, her small legs stilling, and Emma could see she was fighting what she expected to be another mistake. "Are you telling me the truth? Why would they want me?" she asked, the quiet words shaking with doubt.

"Because they want a little girl who is strong-willed and smart, cheerful and independent."

Listening intently, young Emma turned her head to the side a little. "And they think I'm like that?" Her voice held wonder, and the little legs began kicking under the chair once more.

"You _are _like that, Emma. Although, maybe we could work on the cheerfulness bit."

They shared a small smile. Emma watched the conversation from the hallway, and jumped when her memory seemed to catch up with the images playing out before her.

_The office smelled like disinfectant, the glare of the lights reflecting off the shiny leg of the desk. Mrs. McGuire's pantyhose swished and her knees cracked as she stood up at the knock on the door._

"_Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Jamison, so glad you're here." _

Emma startled again, feeling as though she were in two places at once, remembering the day through the eyes of her younger self, and then as she was now, shocked at recognizing the face of the man who entered the room with his wife. A man whose long mustache curled beneath soothing gray eyes.

_Mrs. McGuire extended her hand to a woman, dark-haired and beautiful, and a man with a very big mustache that reminded her of pictures of men on horses. He was older than his wife and his hair was the same color as Emma's. Emma stared at them, wondering if they had really come for her, if they weren't going to turn out to be mean and nasty, or the kind of people who paid attention for a little while but then left, like the man at the bus-stop._

_"Hi, Emma." The woman waved her hand in greeting, and Emma was glad she didn't touch her. "We've heard a lot about you and we wanted to know if you and Mrs. McGuire would like to come with us for ice cream."_

_The man nodded, his gray eyes lighting up. "Aye, little one, we'd be happy if'n ye'd join us." _

_Emma liked the way he sounded. His voice was thick and she might have had a hard time understanding him, but he seemed to make a special effort to speak more slowly._

_Everyone's eyes were on her. Unsure, but sending out the thought that if she wanted anything in this world, she wanted this to work, she nodded her head, then shyly looked down at her feet._

_Mrs. Jamison gently touched her wrist, and at Emma's upturned face, she smiled, gathering her small hand into her larger, warmer one. "Let's go then. What's your favorite flavor?"_

The door began to close, and Emma exhaled loudly, having relived the precious memory now sitting safely within the walls of her mind. She remembered the day at the ice cream shop, the couple answering her questions that started out shy at first but had gained in confidence as the afternoon wore on.

When had Jamison married? What happened to them? What was his wife's name? After the curse when Killian gained the memories of his future, he told her Jamison had been killed by an angry client on a smuggling job gone wrong, and that's why Emma never met him. Jamison never went to Neverland.

There was nothing in her memory that answered her questions, nothing beyond that one blissful afternoon. Emma suddenly found herself wanting to look through all the doors, to find out what else had happened, but the next one that opened was about ten down from where she was now. She hurried toward it.

Young Emma stood in the hallway of the group home, her backpack sliding down her arm to her feet. She slowly removed her coat, hanging it up on the coat rack with a faraway look in her eyes.

_It was her birthday. She was nine years old and no one had remembered. Hell, she hadn't even remembered until her teacher told the class to take out a paper and write their names and the date across the top for the spelling test. She had forgotten about the test too, and was sure she'd missed every word. She hated that feeling. _

_Her mind had been preoccupied with how she was supposed to handle the boy at school who kept taking her lunch everyday and threatening to tell everyone she was an orphan. _

_A tear slipped down her cheek as she made her way to the kitchen. No one was home yet._

The door closed and Emma was relieved not to have to witness what followed. She had been blamed for the mess in the television room and made to clean it up, even though she'd spent the previous evening alone as usual in the room she shared with three other girls. Some birthday. It came and went just like any other day.

Emma no longer felt terribly attached to her past—it was more like a fading bruise, one that ached some if you poked at it, but for the most part was already healed. Remembering her past as an observer, rather than a participant, was more like feeling compassion for someone she knew was hurting. If her younger self deserved anything, it was compassion.

Still not quite understanding what was happening, Emma turned, intrigued by the new information the door opposite might hold, wondering if she would continue to receive new memories. Good memories.

She stepped to the threshold with anticipation. There was a banner across a dining room wall announcing 'Happy 9th Birthday, Emma! We love you!', and a table set with a fancy dinner. Emma watched her younger self happily bring in two full glasses of water.

"_I think that's it, Mom," she called over her shoulder._

_The dark-haired woman entered the room, untying her apron with a large smile. "Thanks, honey. I can't wait for your big surprise." She walked over to Emma and tugged her into a half-hug, which Emma reciprocated by wrapping her arms around the woman's waist._

Henry and Elizabeth Jamison. The names popped into her head as she watched with held-breath, appreciating that she'd never known Jamison's first name until just that moment.

_A firm knock on the door brought Emma's eyes to her mother's excited ones. She squeezed Emma's shoulders and led her to the living room, where her father was opening the door. _

"_Greetings, ol' friend," her dad said with a big smile, leaning forward to embrace their guest._

_From where Emma was standing, she couldn't see who was at the door, so she patiently waited for her father to invite him in._

"_Ah, Jamison, lovely to see you, mate. It's been awhile." She heard the thump of hands as they patted each other's backs, and Emma's heart caught in her chest; she would know that thick accent anywhere. It was the man who used to sit with her from the bus-stop._

_He entered the room and Emma was once again looking into gleaming blue eyes, studying her intently. Eyes that had brightened long dreary days, belonging to the first friend she'd ever made._

"_Killian," her mother greeted warmly. "This is Emma."_

_Killian kissed her mother's cheek, then turned to her, offering his hand. "Emma." Her name rolled off his lips like he'd said it a thousand times, and she lifted her hand in response, not yet leaving her mother's protective embrace._

"_Emma, Killian Jones is the one who told us about you, and we're forever grateful," her mother added. Another squeeze of the arm around her shoulders, and Emma turned to her mother, so beautiful and kind. Who had endured all manner of rebellion the first year she had lived with them. Who wouldn't let her get away with slacking in school or in chores, and who always let her help make cookies and lick the spoon, or jump in puddles on rainy days without getting angry about the mud on her clothes. _

_Emma pulled out of her mother's arms and wrapped her arms around Killian, pressing her face against his torso as she hugged him tight. "Thank you, sir," she said quietly, very aware of the gift he'd made possible._

_He hugged her in return, rubbing her back gently. "This is quite the show of affection, milady." He paused a moment, then bent down in front of her, taking her hand lightly in his. "It was never my intention that you should call me sir. I recall our days waiting for the bus with affection; do you remember what you called me then?"_

"_Jones," she whispered. "I called you Jones." She looked at her mother to determine if it was okay, seeing as she now knew how to address adults respectfully. Her mother seemed to understand and nodded._

"_Aye, call me Jones." He stood and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, following her parents into the dining room while she watched him with all-consuming adoration._

The door began to close, and once again Emma wanted to pound it back open, to know what had happened after that. The memory was there, complete and full, with nothing beyond it. She could remember everything before it—of the day she signed the papers of her adoption, surprised they wanted her signature too, of the first year of hell when she'd rebelled against the rules and stability, feeling safe enough _to_ rebel, her parents gently guiding her through the difficult time with a calm but firm hand, keeping her schedule the same, day in and day out, rewarding her with trips to the movies or for ice cream when she came home with good grades, or giving her the consequences of more chores if she disobeyed. They were respectful and loving and always wanted to know about her day.

She had learned so much in the three years since she'd been adopted. But there was nothing about her life with her adopted parents after her ninth birthday. Her memory was filled with different foster families instead, of running away, of getting in trouble in school, and so on.

Another door on the left opened further down the hall. A dark street wound cozily through the sleepy neighborhood, streetlights shining at intervals on the wet pavement. Emma watched her younger self bolt from the back of one of the houses to the bushes of another, keeping low. She had covered her bright blond hair with a dark cap, the rest of her clothing consistent with stealthy attire.

"Damn," she said softly. It was the first time she had run away from the foster home, when she was probably fifteen or so. She had no destination, and broke into an empty house and raided the pantry, stuffing her backpack with cookies and chips and pop-lid cans of fruit. She spent the night stuffed between the garbage cans in an alley, scared to death she'd be found out, or even worse, the victim of a thug looking for a good time. She wasn't naïve about the ways of the world in the least.

The door began to close, and Emma couldn't help but wonder what the opposing door held. How had her life changed after her ninth birthday, the last time she'd seen Killian as a child?

The door on the right opened onto the living room of the house she shared with her parents. Her mother and father sat curled up on the couch together, with a teenage Emma sitting on the floor at their feet. Killian was lounging in the chair next to their right.

_They had just finished watching _The Time Traveler's Wife_, and Emma sighed with satisfaction. It really was a great movie, and she wished that one day she would be loved like that._

"_It's just as intriguing as the first time I saw it," Jones said, when the last scene ended and the credits began to roll. Killian was in town from abroad, staying with the family in the guest room for a few days before he was scheduled to leave._

"_If I'd known you'd already seen it, we could have watched something else." The tone of her mother's voice sounded apologetic, and her father patted her mother's knee._

"_Ah, well," Killian's hand traveled to the back of his ear as he scratched it. "I saw it years ago, and I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed it."_

"_But how can that be? It was only released last year," her mother asked in confusion._

_Killian coughed uncomfortably and her dad smiled widely, his mustache quivering as he shook his head slightly. Her mother caught the look and subsided, leaving Emma with the overwhelming desire to fulfill her curiosity._

"_What?" Emma asked. _

"_Nothing, lil' love," her father answered, ruffling her hair with his hand, groaning as he stood and helped her mother up. "Well, I'm off. Gonna wake early r'gardless o' the time I retire. G'night, mate. See ye at dawn for coffee and biscuits, like ol' times, eh?" Her dad shook Killian's hand and waited for his wife to join him._

"_Goodnight," Emma told her parents, hugging them both._

_Her mother pointed at Killian. "Don't let her stay up too late." _

_He smiled and answered, "Of course not, milady." He inclined his head and lifted a hand in a bid of goodnight. _

_It was the 'milady' that always made Emma think her belly had become the host for the latest alien trying to explode in birth, happy she hadn't gotten her wish and he'd become her father. She really needed to get a life and get over her crush on Jones._

"_Hey, Jones, wanna play some Nintendo? I've got you this time."_

"_As if that's fair, Swan." His eyes glowed, reflecting the rolling credits, and she switched on a lamp, secretly pleased with the name he called her. She had asked him about it once, a couple of years ago, 'Because swans are so ugly when they're young.' And he had ruffled her hair and poked her in the ribs, and she had known he was joking and responded with her usual sass, 'Yeah, well as far as I know, the story goes that the ugly duckling turns out to be the most beautiful of all the birds. Just you wait, Jones.' 'I've no doubt, milady,' he'd said, and bent over her hand with a twinkle in his eye that made her wish he wasn't so much older._

"_I'm only in town every couple of years as it is," he continued. "And I promise where I live, there is no practicing. Give me a nice game of cards any day, and I'll show you who commands the table then."_

"_Oh, poor Captain, are you surrendering already?" She drew down her lips in an exaggerated pout._

"_Never," he smirked, taking another swig of his coke. "Queue it up."_

"_Queue it up? Bloody hell, Jones, you always sound like a Jane Austen novel."_

"_I hope you don't speak thusly around your parents." He shook his head at her swear, trying to hide a smile, probably because he knew she'd picked it up from him. "And since when have you read any Jane Austen? Seems to me your tastes would most likely resemble a comic book's."_

_"They're so five years ago. Really, Jones, get with it."_

_"You're on." He left his chair and joined her on the rug. She handed him the controller and they clinked them together like a toast._

_"The buttons work the same as last time, and no blaming bad moves on faulty equipment." She narrowed her eyes at him._

_The game began and their jerky movements and exclamations of surprise could be heard all through the downstairs. It was no contest. Emma was so far ahead of him she could play with her eyes closed and still win. His hair was mussed from the number of times he'd run his fingers through it in desperation, twisting the controller and changing position every couple of minutes with his eyes glued to the screen._

_He finally slumped back against the couch, letting his hands fall to his sides. "Alright then, Swan, I admit defeat. You will forever be the goddess of all video games."_

_"Told you so, Jones."_

_He turned and looked at her with an expression she'd seen before, one that made her think he was seeing someone else. It made her skin prickle with an unidentified emotion. Unidentified, but good. _

_Standing up, he returned the controller to the entertainment center. She followed, noticing he had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves at some point during the game. She grasped his wrist, the hairs on his arm softer than she would have expected._

_"What's this?"_

_He hastily began rolling down his shirt to cover the vivid tattoo she'd never seen before, mainly because he never wore short sleeves around her family. She stopped him, using the other hand to keep his cuff up. It was the picture of a swan taking flight from a pool of still water, droplets clinging to its feet._

_"Neither can eternity extinguish it," she read aloud, the scripted letters framing the image in a semi-circle. Turning her gaze to his, she looked up at him in question._

_A strange look passed over his face. "Remind me to tell you the story sometime. But not tonight. It's late. And I promised your parents I wouldn't keep you."_

"_Come on, Jones. At least tell me what the words mean."_

_He sighed heavily, hesitating, and she could see him trying to decide what he would tell her. "I was once asked to help a friend find a very important key that would unlock a door."_

"_You mean like to a safe or something?"_

"_Something like that. We both expected a literal key, but it turned out the key was a key of knowledge, a riddle of sorts, about love." He paused, and an unexpected tendril of jealousy sprouted up. She didn't want to think about Jones and his love for another woman. She ran a finger over the detailed image, noticing the goosebumps that rose in the wake of her touch. Looking into his face confirmed he hadn't noticed his body's reaction. "An age cannot sate love, neither can eternity extinguish it."_

"_An age cannot sate love," she repeated. "That's nice. Why do you only have the second part on your tattoo?"_

"_Because the first part goes on my ring…" He stopped, seeming to catch himself. _

_"What ring?"_

_He gently removed his arm from her hands and began rolling down his shirt sleeve. "Enough questions for tonight, lass."_

_Something about his look told Emma that was all she was going to get out of him. For now. "Fine. But I'm taking a definite rain check on that story, and I swear I'm not going to let you forget."_

_"I'm sure, love. Now, off to bed with you." _

_They were no longer touching but the moment became almost awkward, his gaze too intense. She thought about giving him a friendly hug like she usually did, but her heart was beating a little too fast, and her palms were beginning to sweat. A life, Emma, get a life. He's like fifteen years older than you. _

_"Night, Jones," she said quietly. "Thanks for the easy win," she couldn't help tossing over her shoulder as she exited the room._

The door began to close, but not before Emma recognized the look on her pirate's face. At fifteen years old, she couldn't know the object of her crush most definitely returned her interest.

Turning back to the corridor, Emma had to catch her breath, the memory affecting her with the sting of reality, with the ache of wanting someone she knew she couldn't have—how every glance made her heart jump in her chest, how every touch burned her skin. She was amazed at how cool and clueless she appeared, obviously figuring her crush on the friend of the family was nothing more than that.

He had been faithful to visit every couple of years or so from her ninth birthday on, always staying a few days, reminiscing with her father about their days sailing the high seas, telling stories about the trouble they used to get into. Emma would sit rapt at their feet, her admiration for the great captain growing with every breath. He had worked as a pirate and smuggler for a short time, then had returned to the Navy after a grand adventure convinced him he would rather help protect people than prey on them. He worked somewhere in the United Kingdom, taking his shore leave with them.

That's what Emma had been told then. Knowing what she knew now, Killian had most likely ended his tour with the Navy centuries ago, and was traveling back and forth between her world and Neverland.

Killian was systematically changing her past, and therefore her memories. Or perhaps he was still in the process of changing them. Either way, with no new memories beyond the one she'd just seen, Emma couldn't wait to see what the rest of her life held.

* * *

**A/N: Ok, my beta caught that _The Time Traveler's Wife_ was released long after the last scene would have occurred. So let's just call it creative license and be done! I hope you can forgive me... **

**And as for the butterfly effect and some of the other time anomalies that could possibly be created by this story, I just ask you to remember that pretty much everything about time travel is theory. AND this is romance, not science fiction. ;D.**

**I do NOT plan on an exhaustive account of Emma's new life, just the highlights. Hope this finds you all well, keeping warm and toasty this winter! Cheers! ~DD**


	35. Staggers and Swaggers

_For the best readers out there—here's a bit of fluff. I love you all for being just so darned great!_

_And thank the gods for lethemoirai—my distinguished beta-reader who helps me find the plot-holes.._

_Previously, in_ An Age Cannot Sate Love:

_Emma steps through the door of time and finds herself in a long hallway with doors on either side. The doors on the left contain the memories of her life, starting when she's about five years old. The doors on the right contain new memories of her childhood that include Killian—he shows up in her life at different intervals, every couple of years or so. In a nutshell, Killian has arranged for young Emma to be adopted by Jamison and his new wife, thereby giving her the gift of a stable childhood._

* * *

Chapter 35: Staggers and Swaggers

* * *

Killian's stomach lurched, his decision to forgo breakfast now proving to be a mistake. He couldn't remember when he'd been more nervous. Not when he'd fully grasped the possible consequences to his and his Swan's entire future by sending Milah away, not when he stood before an angry King John asking for a pardon so he could work in the Royal Navy while he searched for a beanstalk, not when he'd officially met Emma for the first time and she'd looked up at him with those pleading green eyes that told him she wished she were anywhere but at that Boston bus stop.

His feet gripped the smooth wooden porch the way they gripped the deck of the Jolly in the middle of a raging storm. Scraping his palms against his trousers, or jeans, for the tenth time, he shrugged his shoulder to shift his pack a little higher, the movement taking some of the tension from his neck as he stood before the small cottage home Jamison and Elizabeth shared in Portland, Maine.

Jamison and his wife met directly after the Jolly Roger's maiden voyage to the world without magic. Leaving Smee and the skeleton crew with the ship, Killian and Jamison traveled on, staying a night at _The Cottage by the Sea _in Portland on the way to Boston, where they would begin the search for Emma. Elizabeth was the proprietor and proved invaluable, spending a couple of days teaching them how to research state records and find the necessary authorities in locating Jamison's _niece—_since deciding Emma resembled Jamison at least in coloring if not in looks.

They found Emma a couple of weeks later, a ward of the state living in a foster home. She appeared to be happy, so Killian decided to check in on her in another couple of years. Jamison never made the return trip to Neverland, or any trip after that, making excuses about how he could help the young widow fix up her little business with much-needed repairs, and easily keep track of Emma.

Killian's return three years later found his friend happily married. Making the trip to Boston and finding a five year old Emma beginning to construct the walls she would perfect by the time she was an adult convinced him to get involved. He befriended Emma and the state agent handling her case. When Elizabeth mentioned her interest in the sad little girl, always having wanted children of her own, and Jamison's gray eyes had softened at his wife's wistful look, that was the start of Emma's new life.

But Emma was eighteen now, and in his world a woman. She would be in the bloom of her youth, feminine and yet innocent, beautiful and yet unaware of her charms, blushing and bold… The wood under his feet nearly slipped away as the door flew inward, a blur of blonde hair and long legs rushing forward.

"Jones!" she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck.

His feet staggered and then steadied, his pack sliding off his arm, forgotten. She had hugged him many times over the years, as naught but a child. Now she was all tight curves and smelling... gods, she smelled just the way he remembered, her scent hiding under the heavier aromas of flowers and fruit. He closed his eyes and inhaled surreptitiously, tightening his arms around her narrow waist. It was the over-loud clearing of a throat that brought Killian back, and a glance over her shoulder to see Jamison's gruff look that resembled more of an overprotective father than his former crewmate.

Sliding out of his arms, she grabbed his bag and pulled him inside, slamming the door with her boot and a quiet, "Sorry," when she saw her father wince at the sound.

"Ah, Jamison, how's married life treating you?" Killian asked sheepishly, hoping to distract Jamison from his scowl that had nothing to do with the slammed door. The wry look that followed told Killian his old friend knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Jes fine, Cap'n, jes fine. How's the ol' girl?" Jamison asked in reference to the Jolly, while raising his brows and pointedly gazing at Killian's and Emma's locked hands. Killian gave hers a squeeze and let go. Emma didn't take her eyes off his profile, still grinning broadly as she waited for the greetings to end.

The surface conversation continued, as well as a silent one that ensued between the two friends, Emma none the wiser.

"You're welcome to take her out while we're in town if you like. I'm sure Elizabeth would fancy a sail," Killian answered. _I'll be happy to look after Emma while you're gone._

"Mighty kind offer, Cap'n. I'm sure Lizzie _and_ Emma would both relish a chance to get oot." _No way I'm leaving my eighteen year old daughter alone with you, you lecherous old fool._

Killian hooked a finger into his belt-loop, doing his best to remain nonchalant. "I'm sure that can be arranged, even with Emma's school schedule. My stay is negotiable." _I'll concede to your wishes for now, but I am thinking of staying on longer than usual, perhaps allow Emma to get to know me better._

Jamison brought a hand up to smooth his mustache, regarding Killian with narrowed gray eyes. "Is that so, Cap'n? Then I anticipate a long discussion, reliving ol' times." _Don't think I'm handing over my daughter just because of our history. I've had the raising of her, and this discussion has only just begun._

"Thank God that's out of the way. Good grief, Jones, I sure wish you could give more advance notice of your visits!" Emma bent to retrieve his pack and tossed it in his direction; he caught it with a small _oomph_.

"Complaining, lass?" he said with a raised brow, taking in her slender face and longer hair. She was as tall as she would ever get, only slightly slimmer than she would be in another sixteen years, since he figured he'd first met her when she was about thirty-four.

"Of course not, it just means you have to join me with my friends tonight at the Penny Post rather than a night of letting me beat you in gaming or trying to convince me to play you in cards."

Killian watched her while a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. He had never been out with her before and anticipated it with pleasure. Jamison, however, looked as though someone had burned the soup in the bottom of his favorite pot.

"Where's your lovely wife?" Killian asked, changing the subject completely.

====o0I0o====

The hall was dark and dusty as usual, filled with pool tables and lounging patrons, the occasional cloud of smoke billowing above a table or plush chair. Emma recognized the indie band, grateful the music wasn't loud enough to drown out conversation. Jones had never joined her "out" before, not that there had been many opportunities, and she wanted to fully appreciate him—or fully appreciate her girlfriends' admiring glances—especially since her father had monopolized him all afternoon.

She smiled to herself, feeling the smooth toughness of his leather jacket against her knit shirt as they stood in the entrance. Jones was gonna cause quite a stir, she was sure. Older men always caused a stir, behaving with a cool aloofness that younger guys couldn't imitate, and therefore easily turned heads. And Jones, well, Jones was beyond cool.

A quick glance around the room found her friends in a nook off to the right. Turning to Jones, she caught the concerned look on his face. "Don't worry, it's dry," she explained, talking about the establishment being alcohol-free.

He turned to her in surprise, his blue eyes sparkling. "So now you're guessing my thoughts, Swan?" One brow rose up slowly.

Her heart gave a little flutter, and she was relieved when her words sounded steady. "You had that look my father sometimes gets when he doesn't approve of something. He can be pretty old-fashioned." Lengthening her face and squinting one eye the way a jeweler studies a precious stone, she appraised him from head to toe, speaking in a mocking British accent, "And I daresay, great Captain, you are too."

"I'll have you know I take great pains in appearing culturally relevant," he groused, studying their surroundings.

"That's true," she conceded, taking in his light-wash jeans and leather jacket that would most likely never go out of style, and the deep red button-down shirt that intensified the color of his eyes and made him appear utterly tantalizing when combined with the three day old stubble.

He finished his perusal of the room and turned back to her. "Therefore on what grounds does the lady base her observations, hmmm?"

Emma nearly closed her eyes in pleasure. If she could bottle up his accent and bathe in it every night she would.

Recovering quickly, she put her finger to her lips as though considering. "Lots of things. Like your speech, for one." She smiled, raising on tip-toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "Don't worry, Jones, I like you just the way you are." She hoped he didn't catch the quiver in her voice that betrayed exactly _how much_ she liked him.

His answering smirk had her shaking her head; and grabbing his hand, she tugged him behind her as she made her way over to her friends.

"Hey guys." Emma greeted the crowd of assembled students with a small wave.

Several heads popped up from various drinks and greeted her in return, their questioning eyes alighting on Killian. "This is Jones, a friend of the family. He's in town for a few days."

A few well-meant nods, a "Hey Man" or two, a wave and giggles from a table of juniors in the corner, and the introductions were done.

Killian leaned close to her ear. "The usual?"

"Yeah, thanks," she said, watching his retreating hips as he dodged sprawling patrons and the maze of tables to get to the drink counter.

A hand on her arm caught her attention and she turned, only to be waylaid by a big hug. "Emma! You came. It's so good to see you."

It was Gwen, one of her girlfriends who had graduated the year before and was working on her freshman year at university. After a quick update on Gwen's life, including the declaration that her ex wanted her back after he'd cheated on her, jerk that he was, Killian returned, patiently waiting for the red-head to finish her story.

"Now you. By the way, where'd you meet such a hottie? Friend of the family my ass, he's delish!" she crooned, licking her lips indecently.

Emma coughed politely, craning her head in his direction.

All the color drained from Gwen's expressive face. "He's right there isn't he?"

Emma nodded, chuckling quietly.

A wooden smile plastered Gwen's mouth as she slowly turned around and looked up—she was a good four inches shorter than Emma—into Jones's amused face.

Setting their drinks on the nearby table, Jones very deliberately took Gwen's hand and bowed low over it. "Your adulation is most welcome, milady." He kissed her knuckles, and Emma watched her friend's chin drop in surprise.

"Um, thanks," Gwen murmured.

Emma had only seen him pour on the charm for her mother's benefit, never for her; he was always careful to behave more like a teasing older brother. A sudden tightening in her chest made her realize how much she would like for that change. "How 'bout a game of pool, Jones?" Emma interrupted.

"Can't say I've ever played, Swan," he grinned, turning back to her with a smirk after watching Gwen slink away.

"I can show you. Won't be the first time I've taught you something new," she teased, taking a sip of her coke before setting it down decisively, thinking she heard a quiet, "You've no idea, love," as she walked over to secure the table for the next game.

The pool cues were warm in her hand, and she took one over to Jones. "Ok, you hit the white ball into the colored ones, trying to land the colored ones in the pockets."

He nodded, watching her closely while she rolled a couple of balls on the table, showing him how to line up the shots. Something in his gaze made her wonder if he was paying attention, even though his blue eyes hadn't left her.

"Let me have a go, Swan." He took a couple of shots, one going wide and the other narrow. "Gods, this is harder than it looks," he complained, running a hand through his thick hair.

"It's all about the angles, Captain." She set up a shot and hit, landing a solid blue ball in the corner pocket.

"Ah, of course," he declared, "Not much different than adjusting a sail to capture the angle of the wind." He hit two successive balls, pocketing both.

She sent an admiring glance across the table. "I think you've got it. You wanna make a bet?"

His head snapped up in interest. "A wager? Now you're talking, Swan. Name the stakes," he replied companionably.

"If I win, you agree to take me to dinner tomorrow night."

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. "And if I win?" he asked slowly, enunciating each word with his delicious accent.

"I agree to kiss you."

A hush settled over her friends in the nearest vicinity. Jones's eyes widened and then one brow shot up as he assessed her from head to toe, just as she had earlier. She knew she was taking a risk, but she was coming up on the end of her senior year, and for the love of God, she'd had a crush on him since she was five, to hell with how much older he must be; he didn't look it. He was either going to accept her wager or back out of it, ever the gentleman.

"Oooh. If you're not going to take her up on that, dude, I am," shouted someone from the corner.

"Deal," he smirked, eyes gleaming like her mother's blue crystal catching the sun in the bay window. He was standing only a couple of feet away, but she felt stuck in a vacuum, her lungs struggling to draw a full breath. He had accepted her bet. Could it possibly mean he was interested in more than just friendship? A tendril of excitement corkscrewed its way through her body, adding to her breathlessness.

The game commenced, her gaze following every stretch of her favorite part of his anatomy as he leaned across the table, catching every swagger and smirk when he landed a ball. Neither one of them was all that great, but they were well matched.

At one point he pocketed two balls in one shot.

"Nice, Jones. Let's see if you can do it again," she challenged.

"At your service, milady." He bowed in her direction, but kept his eyes locked on hers, then bent and took the shot, landing another ball.

"Looks like someone is striving for the win, Emma," one of her girlfriends heckled. Emma leaned against the table with eyes for no one but Jones.

"I would," one boy announced. Emma's mouth curled into a half-smile; Steven was the player of the group.

Killian sauntered around the table until he was standing beside her, reaching across her body to grasp the blue chalk, his sleeve brushing her midsection. Applying the chalk to the tip of his cue, he bent close to her ear and whispered, "You think that's the reason, lady Swan? Seems to me I win regardless of the outcome of this game."

She wasn't experienced enough to know if the quick brush of his lips against her ear was deliberate, but she did know it caused ripples of pleasure through her body that eventually pooled deep in her gut.

He missed the next shot, meaning she was up. Leaning far over the table to reach one of her last two balls, she intentionally let her shirt ride up from the back of her jeans, hoping to give as good as he was.

She was rewarded with his sharp intake of breath and a quiet, "Bloody hell," that could possibly be explained by the success of her shot. She hoped not. The next ball went in too, leaving just the eight ball and two of his. She missed the eight by a hair, setting the ball up to go into the pocket when her turn should come around again.

Jones gazed at her intently, blue eyes hooded over the top of his cue.

He hit both balls in one shot and took out the eight with surprising speed, depositing the pool cue on the edge of the table. It happened so fast she wondered if he'd been a ringer all this time, or if he'd been intentionally extending their game.

"Emma! You have to pay up now!" said one good natured voice. "Yeah, give your _friend_ his kiss," badgered another. Never had Emma been watched so closely, and although she had known everyone in the room for years, when it came down to it, she suddenly found herself feeling shy.

It was Jones who came to her rescue, eyes softening as he circled to her side. He presented his cheek. "Make it count, Swan. It isn't every day I get an offer as appealing as yours," he winked.

She pressed her lips to his scruffy face, lingering over her peck, enjoying the feel of the bristly hairs against her soft skin. "Thank you, Jones," she whispered.

"No worries, milady. I've bitten off more than I could chew many times myself."

Several responses from the crowd billowed around the room. "Aww... that's not a kiss, Emma! We were hoping for a show," and, "I think it's sweet," and, "Why bother betting for nothing in return?" and a grumpy, "I'd still take it."

Emma grinned at her friends. "I didn't ask for a commentary, guys. Anyway, we're out. See you later." She gave out a couple of hugs, one to Gwen who whispered, "Call me later, I want details!" Emma felt a little thrill at her words, hoping there might be something to tell.

Feeling his hand on the small of her back, she smiled at the gentle touch. "You really are old-fashioned, Jones. Ready?"

"Aye, love." His tone sounded weary and almost sad, and she wished with all her heart she knew what he was thinking.

====o0I0o====

"I know that look, Cap'n. Remember it quite weel from the first time I met the lass," Jamison said, sitting across the table with a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits between them.

Killian took a biscuit and spread butter and jam on it before taking a large bite, savoring the sweetness. Jamison had always been a wonderful cook and Killian had missed him in the sixteen years he'd been gone. Not wishing to speak with a mouthful of food, the chewing gave him a minute to formulate his answer. Jamison forged on though.

"She's my daughter, Killian." Something about the agony in his voice caused Killian to lift his eyes to his old friend. "I love 'er. And I know how ye feel about 'er. Now I also know ye've kept yerself chaste, which is more than most o' the kids these days. But she's still young. She wants to attend college and work in law enforcement, get her masters in criminal justice. She's smart, and Elizabeth and I have saved the money."

Killian knew his friend well. "And you don't want her saddled with a three hundred year old ship captain who might take her away from her dreams."

Jamison nodded. "She's worked so hard in school, got a full scholarship to state. Let 'er get 'er degree, then come back and..."

"Gods, Jamison. I would never take away from Emma's dreams. But so much has changed from her original timeline. Every time I leave, I despair whether I should ever see any of you again. She's here, now." He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. It seemed he'd been doing that a lot this trip.

"And she's interested," Jamison sighed.

"And for as much as I would love to stay by her side and marry her while she follows those dreams, there is one problem with the alternate timeline that must be addressed."

"What's that?"

"Neal."

Elizabeth padded into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. "Good morning," she yawned sleepily.

Jamison continued staring at Killian a moment more, then reached out and grabbed his wife's waist, pulling her to him. She bent down and placed a kiss on his lips. "Mmmm" he said, "Sweeter than jam."

She grinned into his mouth then retreated to fill a cup of coffee for herself. Jamison turned to Killian with a very distinct, _We will finish this discussion later,_ even though he hadn't said a word.

====o0I0o====

Killian stared up at the ceiling of his guest room, occasionally rubbing his legs back and forth under the sheets, too agitated to sleep. As much as he longed to stay with Jamison, he really couldn't; Emma hopefully had a date with destiny in the form of Neal, and Storybrooke required his attention. The Enchanted Forest had still been cursed in his current timeline, brought on by Rumplestiltskin reacting to his wife's rejection in the same way he had before—by becoming the Dark One.

Knowing the curse was on its way, Killian made arrangements to hire Robin Hood and his merry men as his crew to accompany him on his trips between Neverland and the world without magic. From what Killian remembered from his time in Storybrooke—during his own personal curse with Emma—the Hood was an honorable man, as trustworthy as Jamison. Once Robin understood the implications of the impending curse, he gladly joined Killian on the Jolly Roger, if for no other reason at that time than to protect Roland. Killian portal-jumped using the endless supply of beans he grew, once again sending a prayer of thanks to the gods for having befriended a family of giants _before_ the wars.

And then there was Neal. Killian remembered Neal vaguely as the lost boy Baelfire in Neverland—their paths had crossed a few times—but beyond that he didn't know much else. Killian had located Neal the previous week hiding out in Portland, Oregon. Going on Emma's brief synopsis of their time together, Neal would most likely remain in Portland for another four to six months before moving on to Sacramento. The only problem was that Emma was in Portland, Maine, and wasn't likely to take a trip out west anytime soon.

Killian couldn't fathom steering her life toward the man who ultimately left her pregnant and jailed in the alternate timeline. But he wouldn't take Henry away from Emma, ever. Jamison understood the gravity of the situation, and for as difficult as it would be as her father, he promised Killian he would find the cowardly git and offer him a job, using his information about his past to sway him. Killian would just have to trust that she and Neal wouldn't stay together. He couldn't fathom returning to find her married to Neal; if anything his love for her had only intensified as their time of reunion grew shorter and shorter.

Overly warm in addition to restless, he nearly kicked the quilt off his legs when the door handle of his room began turning. He bolted upright, hoping and half-dreading the intruder would be none other than the object of his current ruminations.

A beautiful blond head peeked in.

"Oh, good, you're up," she whispered, entering the room and carefully closing the door without a sound.

She was wearing very short trousers that showed off her long legs and a fitted tank top that caressed her curves almost as well as his hands could. His brows shot up in alarm; she really would be the death of him.

"What are you doing here, Swan?" he ground out, his voice sounding rougher than he intended.

"Just taking a nightly stroll, Jones, what do you think?" she shot back, then climbed under the covers next to him.

He nearly darted out the other side of the bed, if for no other reason than to don a shirt, but her hand on his arm stopped him. "Don't… go. I'm freezing and I just have a quick question."

He didn't know if she had any idea what she was doing to him, but there was only so much he could take, and a barely clothed Emma Swan in his bed, asking him to stay, was not something he could refuse. Ever. And so in spite of the warning bells ringing in his ears, Killian slid back under the quilt, careful to stay on the opposite side of the bed.

"Mmmm, you must have been lying here. It's so warm." She wiggled a few times and then settled down, looking over at him with green eyes blazing. He turned away and glared at the ceiling again, this time for a completely different reason.

"What is it, lass?"

It was several deep breaths before she answered. "I wanted to know if I could give you your proper winnings? You did earn it," she added softly, lowering her lashes.

He had thought the game of pool from the previous evening was forgotten. The memory of her soft lips against his cheek brushed his face like a phantom's touch, his thoughts revolving with images of holding her against him, of kissing her senseless, of spreading his fingers through her golden hair.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Swan," he managed, fisting his hands to keep from reaching out across the bed.

"But… I thought for sure you…" The disappointment in her voice had him turning toward her in an instant.

"It's not that, love. Gods, it was never that. I just don't think I can…" He was bungling this, badly. How was he supposed to tell her he'd wanted her for three hundred years? That he envisioned her lovely limbs in his bed almost daily?

"Oh. Well, I understand. I know I'm younger than you." She frowned, but shook it away before continuing. "Hey, 'no worries' like you always say. I was just thinking I feel more comfortable with you than anyone, and I wanted my first experience to be with someone who's a gentleman. You know, like Dad," she admitted, taking a shaky breath.

It took a second to realize she was talking about more than just a kiss. His body responded with the kind of heat that absorbed into a copper barrel sitting on the deck of his ship in the summer sun. He didn't know how much courage it had taken for her to admit her thoughts, but when he was at the tender age of eighteen, he hadn't possessed half the fearlessness she commanded. "Bloody hell, Emma, you're killing me," he whispered, pushing a hand through his hair, hoping to distract from the havoc her freshly-showered scent was wreaking on his senses.

Her voice was filled with a smile. "I haven't heard you call me by name in years." She reached over and touched his cheek, bringing his face back to hers. "Hey, it's okay. I understand. I'll just go and leave you to your… musings," she said sadly, her face holding none of the guile so many other women had used over the years to try to convince him to warm their beds.

Her outright candor and fresh innocence nearly had him tugging her against him. She thought he was rejecting her out of principle. Hell, he hadn't said one way or another had he? If only he could think…

She pulled her hand away, her eyes dropping to his chest before sitting up on the edge of the bed. The streetlamp outside the only window highlighted the space where her shirt rode up, revealing the edge of a tattoo peeking out from the top of her short trousers.

His fingers advanced before he could pull them back, running over the ink. He closed his eyes against the deluge of emotions her soft skin invoked; it had been too long since he'd held her in anything other than a dream or a memory.

"Please don't tell my parents," she pleaded, turning to him in distress.

"What is it, lass? What's the rest of it?" he asked gruffly, ignoring her request.

She smiled shyly and presented her back, lowering her waistband with both hands.

Killian usually slept naked, but as a guest in his oldest friend's house, he couldn't in good conscience do so. The boxers he'd purchased for just such occasions left him feeling as though he had nothing on. He rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand, grateful for the thick quilt.

The tattoo was a picture of a ship, strikingly similar to the Jolly Roger, a man at the stern gazing off toward shore while the ship sailed away through the quiet waters. A woman with long hair blowing in the invisible breeze stood on the rocks, watching his departure. The inscription, _An Age Cannot Sate Love_, wrapped around the base of the inking.

"I know it's… maybe childish. But I wanted something…" she trailed off, releasing the band and sighing heavily.

How could she possibly have chosen a design that perfectly embodied what so much of their entwined lives had entailed? And she thought she was being childish. Perhaps another man would agree with her, would chastise her for being over-bold. But not him. He had lived too long and waited too many lifetimes to claim her as his own once again. Knowing she was forever marked as his only heightened his need. His body warred against his mind, threatening his sanity with thoughts of waiting longer, of tactfully withdrawing while she formed a relationship with Neal first, once the drifter was relocated.

"I'm married," he blurted, mentally kicking himself for not filtering his words.

Her mouth opened in astonishment. "You are? Oh… Oh! Wait. Since when?" Her brows tucked together in question, and he could see her mind turning over this new information.

"It was a long time ago." He dropped his head on his pillow, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Do you still see her?" she asked tentatively, and he wondered if she would still want him if she thought he was attached.

"I'm not sure how to answer that. It's… complicated."

She nodded tersely, looking frustrated with his lack of information. "Good night then, Jones." She stood up, about to step away from him. He didn't want to let her go, even if he should encourage her flight.

"It isn't like that. My wife is…" His wife was what? Standing in front of him, offering herself like a delectable oyster in a sea of pearl? She paused, listening, and he tugged her wrist so she was sitting on the edge of the bed again, one leg curled on the mattress and the other dangling. Sitting up, he flattened his hands on top of the quilt, breathing deeply while she watched him with innocent but curious eyes.

If he wanted an out, he could take it now. He could let her walk out of that room and back to her life and pretend this conversation had never occurred. Yet it was agony to consider doing so, regardless of what the gentleman in him suggested he do. Killian Jones had learned extreme patience over the years, but in that moment his endurance deserted him. Making a final decision, he chose to take the consequences as they came.

"My wife is no longer…" he trailed off, hoping she would assume he was trying to say his wife was gone. When her face softened with compassion, he knew he'd been successful.

"And I haven't done this in a very long time," he finished, glancing over at her and feeling horribly self-conscious.

The smile was back in her voice. "Well, if that's all, then you're in good company, since I haven't either, if you consider never a very long time," she teased.

Their chuckles instantly broke through the discomfort after his awkward admission. She was bold and beautiful, just like he knew she would be, undaunted by the fact that she was half-dressed in a bed with a man she must think was twice her age.

"I can't stay with you," he said quietly but seriously. If he stayed, she'd never meet Neal, never have Henry, and that just wasn't an option he was willing to live with, nor would she accept, if she ever learned of it.

"I know. You have a job across the ocean." Her green eyes flashed with desire, and she seemed to thrum with nervous energy, edging just a bit closer.

"And I can't keep in touch with you either."

"You know, sometimes I think you're in black ops or something with the way you always show up unannounced," she winked. "Really, it's okay. I understand your not wanting to start something, Jones. Besides, I have college and…" Her eyes dropped to his lips and then to his chest as she stretched a hand over his heart in wonder, thumbing a few chest hairs. He covered her fingers with his, reaching across the expanse to palm her cheek.

He watched her throat convulse as she swallowed thickly, leaning forward to press her mouth to his, her eyes open with the determination of not missing a single detail. He paused, breathing in the mint-like smell of her breath as his entire body tightened like the guide-rope on a sail filled with wind, then wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her forward, lowering them so his body covered hers.

"You're so warm," she whimpered against his mouth, and he cut off any other words with a slow and exploratory kiss.

She tasted just as he remembered, her body fitting to his as it always had. Every inch of his skin was on fire for her, waiting for the moment she should douse the flames with her delectable touch.

Moving his lips from hers to trail down her neck, she turned her head to the side, presenting more skin, and very subtly pressed her hips into his.

The air expelled from his lungs in a quiet but forceful groan. His body simply didn't possess the capacity to repress his need. He had dreamed of her for far too long, had loved her with an ache that made him wish he was dead sometimes, waiting, always waiting for the day she would become his. His mouth flirted with hers, the kiss gentle but firm. His hands sought the fulfillment of his memory, scraping and caressing every inch of her luscious curves. She was inexperienced but learned quickly, matching his passion taste for taste, touch for touch.

Killian knew her body better than he knew his own, able to coax her into full-fledged ecstasy, more than once. She arched against him, gripping his shoulders and quietly moaning his name.

This time she called him Killian.

======o0o======

The dark wooden door had already closed on what would become sweet love-making, Emma's memory filling in the supplemental images and emotions that caused her cheeks to flush with longing. Her belly compressed in a strong Braxton-Hicks contraction, her baby pushing a knee or elbow against a tender spot inside her womb. The yielding ache was nothing compared to the love she felt for the father of her child.

Killian Jones had given her the gift of a happy childhood, and she in turn had given him the gift of her virginity. Not only was she his first love, he was hers. Leaning against the hard door, she couldn't think of a more fitting exchange.

The ripples of the erotic memory slowly fanned out until they had faded to nothing more than a shimmer on the edge of her mind. Emma gazed down the long hallway as several questions arose, the most persistent being, _What happened to Henry?_

* * *

_A/N Alright all! I hope you can tell that I WILL deal with Henry, so don't worry; I promise you can trust me. I'm too much of a romantic at heart (as if you couldn't tell)._

_So many guests are leaving wonderful little notes of encouragement—I see you all, even though I can't respond. Much love to everyone who drops me a line. I've conversed with some lovely readers on !_

_Have a wonderful January, everyone. Cheers! ~DD_


	36. An Age Cannot Sate Love

_After sickness and a very long week, here's an extra long chapter to make us all smile (including me!) Lots of questions are answered. It's been fun writing so many reunions with our favorite ship—so much better than goodbyes!_

_Beta-read by the canny lethemoirai. And I'd like to give a shout-out to Lifeinthewoods and her fun-fiction, _Royal Excursions_. Check it out for some great slap-stick._

_Previously in _An Age Cannot Sate Love_: _

_While Emma makes her way through the door of time, reliving old memories and discovering new ones, we get a glimpse from Killian's point of view, when he visits Emma at eighteen years old. Flirting and fun ensue for them both, and Killian establishes himself as Emma's first love. _

_Time in these chapters is moving in snapshots, brief glances at the important moments in Emma's life that no longer fit with canon._

* * *

Chapter 36: An Age Cannot Sate Love

* * *

"_Emma! Aren't you ready yet?" _

_Neal's voice traveled from the main room of her dorm to the bathroom, tackling her with its persistence. Her hands shook as she applied her lipstick and tried her best to ignore the second pink line on the pregnancy test._

"_Be right there!" she hollered back, knowing she sounded angry. And maybe she was. Maybe she was angry that he could lounge against her headboard reading a comic book while she contemplated the delay of the future she'd so carefully planned out. It wasn't as if having a child was going to put a damper on _his_ life. Neal worked for her dad in his small repairs business, ever since Jamison had returned with him from a trip out west to help a neighbor move his son into his new apartment. Neal made no pretenses about his desire for Emma and eventually won her over with his charm and happy-go-lucky attitude that contrasted with her more serious, determined side. _

_But what initially attracted her now drove her nuts. They had had more than one conversation on what his plans were for the future, conversations that usually left her frustrated with him shrugging his shoulders like nothing mattered except taking each moment as it came. She was 22 years old and was all for a little fun, but she had goals too. Neal didn't. In fact, his lack of ambition had been a major sore point in their relationship for the past year. She was often the one expected to make all the decisions, and damn-it, she was tired of feeling like the only adult._

_Capping her lipstick with an audible pop, she surveyed her flat stomach. No, she couldn't expect to see anything yet; she had only just missed her period by a week. Frustrated with letting make-up sex after a particularly explosive fight overcome her better judgment—a single indiscretion she would apparently remember the rest of her life—she walked into the room she shared with Mariah, another senior at __USM__, Portland._

_Taking a deep breath to calm her growing anxiety, she slapped Neal's foot to get his attention. "Where're you taking me?"_

"_Oh, I don't know… Just thought I'd take you… out." His eyes held a mischievous twinkle; his idea of a date often included breaking into a secluded park or sneaking into a movie theater. It was exciting a couple of years ago, but now, not so much, especially when Emma was staring graduation in the face. _

"_Can't we just watch a movie or something? Or maybe get a couple of beers and lounge around the lakes?"_

"_Where's your sense of adventure, Em?"_

"_Probably stuffed in my forensics book. Please. No adventure tonight. I don't have the energy to outrun any cops, and I can't risk not graduating because I'm stuck in jail." She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered to let him know she was serious. _

"_Fine. We'll go see Pirates of the __Caribbean__. I know you're a sucker for Johnny Depp." He folded the magazine and stood up, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek._

"_Ok, fine then." A small smile escaped her lips in spite of her frustration and he caught it with his own goofy grin, pleased he'd chosen well. It seemed that's what they did now, argue and appease more than anything. _

_She had contemplated breaking things off more than once, but now… Her pulse continued to race as she anticipated Neal's possible reaction to her news. She would wait a bit before telling him, maybe feel him out first. He was dramatic and romantic, always hinting that he wanted a future with her, but something about the shift of his eyes had her questioning his honesty and whether he was the kind of man to stay around._

_Of course, the man she really wanted apparently wasn't that type either, but she still found herself looking out the window on more that one occasion for the cab that would bring Jones to her door. He hadn't visited in four years. The last time she'd seen him was the night they'd been together, when he'd lingered over her hand in the doorway of his room, kissing it gently before tugging her into his arms one last time and holding her so tightly to his chest she struggled to breathe. "I'll see you in the morning, Jones," she'd said, happily ignorant. He didn't reply, and by the time she'd padded down from her upstairs bedroom the following morning, he had already gone._

_Killian Jones, always true to his word. _"I can't stay with you,"_ he'd said. And he hadn't. It shouldn't have broken her heart, but it did. _

_She and Neal walked a couple of blocks down to the university cinema where tickets were half price for students. Neal bought the tickets and led her inside, his hand on her lower back. It wasn't unusual for him to do so, although he'd probably quit if he knew it only succeeded in making her think of the man whose touch she longed for even while she spent her time with another._

The faceless wooden door began to close, forcing Emma backward from the scene on the university parkway, but not before she saw the unmistakable face of August standing in the movie line behind them. Her younger self wouldn't have recognized him, but she certainly did. It was August who had convinced Neal to leave her.

Emma turned and leaned against the wall, digesting all her new information and the changes to her original history-back when Neal had been her anchor, her first love. In this timeline, her relationship with Neal had started out fun and exciting, but had soured with age. And Emma knew exactly why. Because Neal couldn't live up to the same expectations Killian did.

The next door on the left opened and Emma reluctantly plodded toward it. Her early twenties had not been an easy time for her, and she hated the despair and loneliness barely concealed behind her gruff exterior. Smiles had been few and far between then. Peering around the door jam, she saw a diner, her younger self wearily wiping her brow as she cleared the dirty dishes. Waiting tables had been one of a long string of jobs not requiring a college degree that she'd held before finally finding her fit as a bail-bondsman. Several male customers followed her with bleary but eager eyes, and she could remember having to forcefully discourage some of the more persistent patrons. She wasn't interested in relationships, ever. Relationships meant getting close to people, and Emma didn't do close.

Sighing heavily, Emma turned away before the door closed, looking back on her life with that same detached perception she'd come to expect with her history. Despite all odds, twelve years had changed everything. And if she had known then what her future held, she might have had some hope, although she most likely wouldn't have believed it.

The corresponding door on the right swung open and Emma quickened her steps toward it, curious as to what it would reveal this time.

A hospital delivery room. A newly graduated Emma with her criminal justice degree, lay back against the elevated bed, red-faced and sweating. Her mother held her hand and counted out the breaths during the pushes.

_Emma had never felt such pain in her life, but she wanted to push this baby out without any pain medication, just to see if she could. Hell, if she could withstand the rejection of Neal disappearing without a word before she'd even had a chance to tell him he was going to be a father—confirming her worst fears about him—then she could do this. And at least she wouldn't be alone raising her baby. Her mother and father were there, their steadying presence assuring her they'd help her any way they could while she found a job in her chosen field. _

_She gripped her mother's hand as she curled forward, breathing in and holding her breath while her body bore down with the force of a jet engine. Every hard workout she'd ever accomplished became her inspiration, and she garnered all her strength hiding in the recesses of her focused brain._

_The sudden release of pressure made her sag in relief as a loud cry split the air in the hospital room, and everyone present took a collective breath inward. It was done. _

_"A boy!" one of the nurses exclaimed. _

_Emma collapsed back and accepted the carton of orange juice another nurse handed her, drinking it in a few swallows. A son. She was a mother now. Setting down the empty carton, she sat up, ready to meet the little guy who'd put her through hell the last few hours. _

_The nurse handed over her son, wrapped snugly in a white blanket with blue and pink edging. His eyes were tightly closed and he fidgeted, opening his mouth in a wide yawn. Emma thought he was the most wonderful baby she'd ever seen, not that she'd been around very many, but at that moment she knew without a doubt she'd love him with all her heart._

_Her mother squeezed her hand as the tears poured from her big brown eyes, her smile as softhearted as Emma had ever seen. "He's beautiful, Emma."_

_The nurse looked up from her chart. "You can try and feed him if you like." _

_Fumbling with her hospital gown, Emma bared her breast, offering it to the tiny gaping lips. The sudden clamping of his gums caused her to jump in surprise, and when the nurse offered to help her find a better fit, she took her up on it. _

_Her mother stood by her shoulder, tenderly rubbing the baby's bald head while he ate. When he was finished, Emma held him up. "Want to hold him?"_

_Elizabeth could barely form words, so she nodded happily and took him, gently burping him while the nurses prepared to transfer them from labor and delivery to her own room._

_Jamison met them there, and as soon as possible was cradling her son with a quiet awe. "Ah, lass, 'e's a fine, braw lad. Did ye decide on a name? I can't imagine ye'll be calling him Neal, Jr." Finally looking up from his grandson's face, a sly smile lurked beneath his long mustache. From anyone else, the teasing words might have been hurtful, but she and her father were close, having shared several conversations about Neal and what it might mean for her future. And the truth was thinking about Neal didn't hurt anymore. In some ways, his leaving was a welcome relief. _

_No, what hurt more was that Killian still hadn't returned. In one moment she wondered if she'd ever see him again and in the next wondered what she would say if she did. How would he take the news that she'd had a child out of wedlock? He could be so old-fashioned. She had asked her dad about him once, only to receive a very gruff, ''e thought'd be for the best,' that told her nothing. Her father could be very tight-lipped when he wanted to be, and she knew better than to pursue the subject._

"_I've decided to call him Henry, after you, Dad. Henry David Jamison." She looked up at her father as he cradled the tiny bundle, gray eyes lowered and soft._

_It was the first time she'd ever seen her dad cry._

Emma didn't realize her father's happy tears had become hers until a streak of wetness tracked down her cheek, cool against her flushed face. Killian Jones had changed everything, including the timing of Henry's conception. And Henry had still been born against anything that could be considered a practical explanation. Henry was part of the new timeline! Granted it was about four years later, but she still had her son. And good thing, since if she was going to be returning to a life at the end of the new timeline, then she didn't want to imagine it without Henry.

Gripping the door frame, what started as a few salty tears became sobs as all the years of hating herself for making so many bad decisions released their hold on her. The tears were cathartic, cleansing her as sure as any bath after a particularly hot and dirty day. Her greatest desire had been granted. Killian had given her more than just a stable childhood; he'd given her a situation that enabled her to be a mother to Henry. By 22, with a degree, she had a future and a family who would support her. She and her parents would be her son's best chance in life.

By the time the door closed on the happy family, Emma's tears were spent, and she stood upright wiping her hands across her face. Relief poured through her limbs, her baby deciding to kick and roll too, as if joining in the excitement of having a brother. Emma rubbed her stomach, idly tracing the tightened skin across the very front, wondering what else had changed with Killian's intervention.

====o0I0o====

Killian stood in the darkened hallway, the fading light from the single window casting long shadows across each doorway as he searched for number 402. It was the same apartment number as the one they had shared during the curse. The uncanny resemblance to that Storybrooke-bound apartment building with its rickety elevator and tired hallway sent a quiver of premonition through his over-excited limbs. She didn't know he was coming, and she couldn't know they had shared months together in a place almost identical to this one as part of a test in another life altogether.

Six years. Six years since he'd last held her, her breath stirring his chest hairs as he clutched her lithe body against his, hating that once he'd agreed to spend the night with her, he would be forced to stay away and allow Jamison to find Neal, giving her time to form an attachment to the other man. Killian had returned two years later—when Emma was living in the dorm at the state college—and followed the young couple out on one of their adventures. Seeing her throw her head back in abandoned delight, green eyes wild with new love, had stabbed through his chest like a hand choking his heart, and he had turned away in dismay. No one should have to watch their true love with another.

She wasn't pregnant then, and he did his best to keep from picturing her sharing a bed with Milah's son, meeting with Jamison once before quietly leaving town. Jamison had simply informed him of how he'd found Neal, how the young man was getting on, and so on, most importantly assuring Killian that Emma was happy. It was one of the few times Jamison held his tongue, offering the barest of details out of respect for Killian's feelings.

Planting his feet in front of her door and dropping his bag off to the side where it couldn't be seen—in case things went badly and she asked him to leave—he took a deep breath. His thoughts swam with questions about everything Jamison had and hadn't said during their reunion earlier that day, and Killian lifted his hand to the door, rapping his knuckles across the painted wood a couple of times.

"Be right there!" she shouted from the other side, over the sounds of the laughing actors from a television program. If his heart wasn't already spinning like the wheel of his ship during a bad storm, it would have flown away on the gusts of those simple words, locking his hopes in his chest and choking him with unrequited longing. The wait had been interminable, the past six years dragging almost as long as the first 300, made worse by his intention to stay this time, if she would have him.

He heard her make her way over to the door, then get quiet as she most likely peered through the tiny hole in its center. He smiled, nervously shifting his feet. It was several seconds before he heard the lock slowly pulling through the mechanism.

The door swung inward and she was there, hair pulled back, wearing a red tank top and loose trousers, and with her perfect pink mouth open in a precise imitation of the letter "o". Her face suffused with redness as several emotions passed over it, and he wanted to grab her quickly and save her from the deluge of thoughts. But he couldn't. Not until he knew for sure what those thoughts involved and whether or not she hated him for abandoning her.

She continued to stare, her mossy green eyes rapidly transforming to a deep emerald as she tried to work out what to say. Killian could relate; he was suddenly at a loss for words as much as she.

"C-come in," she finally offered, moving back so he could enter. She closed the door and locked it, slowly turning around as though she expected him to evaporate into thin air.

"Ah, Swan," he started, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "I know it's been awhile. I-I should apologize…" He scratched behind his ear, hoping to think of something to dispel the awkwardness.

His eyes must have closed because suddenly her soft curves pressed into him, her arms tightening around his neck as she buried her face in his collar. He crushed her against him, all the awkwardness from a moment ago evaporating as his senses drowned in her familiar scent. Gods, he had missed holding her like this, like she was his, had always been his.

She pulled out of his arms sooner than he was ready, and he opened his eyes barely in time to catch the whir of her slender hand as it impacted with the side of his face in a sharp _slap!_

"Bloody hell, Swan. What was that for?" he demanded, stepping back in stunned surprise, the heat from his stinging cheek probably forming a bright red handprint.

"That's for making love to me and leaving without a word," she said, eyes narrowed and arms crossed over her chest.

"I told you I couldn't stay with you," he replied dubiously, eyeing her with the kind of wariness one would need when approaching a feral cat.

"So you did. Doesn't make it right," she said with a fair amount of self-righteousness. The only thing missing was a foot tapping impatiently.

"Aye, well, I had my reasons," he confessed quietly, although those reasons suddenly felt rather inadequate while staring into her beautiful but annoyed face. He turned his face away to escape her penetrating gaze; there was much to tell her, but not yet.

Her apartment was smaller than the one they had shared during the curse, with a galley style kitchen to his left and a living area to his right. A dining table stood at his back, separating the two spaces, and a hallway beside the entertainment center disappeared toward what he could only assume was bedrooms.

"Oh, that's just exactly what every woman wants to hear. Reasons like you and my father orchestrating a relationship between Neal and me?" Now her foot was tapping, reminding him that in this timeline, his Swan had learned to be direct at a very early age rather than constantly trying to hide her true feelings. She had no reason to run when she had been so well-loved and accepted all her life. "I really hate that you two didn't trust me to decide," she finished.

How much did she know? He was on thin ground, and he couldn't afford to push her away, not when he'd come so far and waited so long. Tossing a hand through his disheveled hair, he lowered his voice, sharing the _only _reason he had stepped out of the way while she and Neal were together. "What about Henry? Would you give up Henry?"

Her face melted into the affection he'd come to recognize every time she thought of her son. "Of course not, but you could have told me sooner, especially if Neal was the reason you stayed away." She dropped her hands and narrowed her eyes slightly, studying him.

"Bloody hell, Swan! I can't even begin to imagine what that chat might have entailed. Do you have any idea what you're like when I divulge something you don't want to hear?" Visions of their time together during the curse haunted him with the same sense of frustrated futility.

"Do you have any idea what I'm like when I find out I've been manipulated?" she shot back, dropping her hands to her hips.

_Aye. And I have the memories to prove it._ And he did. Memories of an alternate timeline involving his future self having manipulated her several times as a means to an end. But he couldn't tell her that; it wasn't anything she'd be able to conceptualize. Yet.

"I apologize, love." His words fell away; there was nothing he could say to redeem himself. Disappointed at the turn in the conversation before he'd even had a chance at a pleasant repartee, he began to move toward the door. Maybe if he left her alone for the evening, he could return the following day when she'd had time to calm down. He couldn't give up on her, but he could give her time.

She blocked his path, challenging him to stay and fight. "Good. You can make it up to me." Her clear gaze turned impish as she walked toward him, closing the distance and stealing his breath.

She crowded him against the dining chair, her eyes darkening as they lowered to his lips, her expression turning serious. Lifting a hand to finger the open neck of his shirt, he swallowed thickly as her warm touch tickled his skin. The heat flashed between them, and she raised her mouth to his, stopping just short of his lips. Her breath smelled like chocolate. His entire being screamed with the desire to kiss her, to put an end to his long-winded misery of being separated from her, but ever the gentleman, he waited for her to initiate.

"What did you have in mind?" His words were hushed and heavy with desire.

"Nothing too strenuous," she mouthed, licking her bottom lip in a move that made being a gentleman the ultimate curse, "Certainly nothing my new love interest would take exception to."

He snapped his head up, blanching as if scorched by her words. "Love interest? But Jamison said you weren't attached to anyone." Gods, could Jamison have been wrong? Had she formed an attachment with another man since Neal? Killian was glad he'd left his pack in the corridor, since it looked like he'd be making a hasty retreat. He would never impose where her happiness was concerned, no matter the cost to himself.

"Yeah, well, dads don't know everything, you know. Would you like a drink? We can catch up for a bit." She popped backward with the confidence of a woman in command, unrepentant of the fact that she'd just thrown his world into a maelstrom.

A cup of rum, or hell, anything she had sounded like a mighty fine idea. "Aye, Swan. A quick drink and I'll be on my way," he managed, hoping he sounded unconcerned, his heart squeezing painfully at the thought of having to wait even longer to make her his. He followed her slowly to the kitchen, his hope at being able to stay shredded on the edges of her fateful words. Perhaps she wouldn't notice how flustered he felt.

"I have water and beer," she called, bending in front of the open fridge.

"Perhaps something a bit stronger, lass?" he muttered, although he'd take the beer if she had nothing else. A quick swig of alcohol accompanying a quicker conversation and he could walk out in ten minutes to negotiate this tragedy alone.

She stood upright and smiled mischievously. "I think I have just the thing." Closing the fridge, she grabbed two tumblers and opened a cabinet, stretching up to reach something within, failing to catch hold of her goal.

He stepped behind her to see a bottle of golden rum sitting on a top shelf. The liquid sang to him, promising to ease the ache in his choked heart. Without a thought for her proximity and intent on reaching the liquid comfort, his fingers closed over the bottle. She dropped down heavily from her toes, her backside sliding down his body, pinioning herself between him and the counter. He leaned against her and closed his eyes, giving over to the electrifying touch, his desire expanding like the humidity after a summer rain. Just one moment more and he would stop torturing himself…

She turned before he could step back, fisting her hands in his shirt.

"Are you seeing anyone?" she whispered. "Who is he?" he asked at the same time.

The questions stung the air with uncertainty, charging him with a painful situation. If she truly belonged to another, there could be no familiar conversation over drinks; he would have to leave post haste. He shook his head to answer her question.

"You," she answered, her eyes flicking to his lips and back up.

Stunned by her admission, he just stood there, staring into her smoky green eyes.

Gods, could it be? He barely mustered a smirk, hoping sass might hide the absolute longing tearing through his cells. "Teasing your guests before they're properly invited in is _very _bad form, Swan."

"Then by all means, Captain, make yourself comfortable," she murmured, eyes flicking to his lips and then to her hands as they skimmed the jacket from his shoulders.

She watched it fall to the floor then lifted her head up, pressing her soft mouth against his. He closed his eyes in disbelief, just breathing her in, the kiss flaring from gentle to passionate in seconds. His body throbbed with anticipation at claiming her once and for all, the denouement to lifetimes of delayed gratification. Her hands wrapped around his neck and threaded through his hair, tugging him closer. He flattened his hands against her back and further down, lifting her onto the counter, trailing his fingers down one luxurious thigh before hitching it around his waist, her other leg following as if attached by an invisible string.

She tasted better than he remembered, sweeter than a thousand memories. Her hands dropped to his tucked shirt, tugging it from his waistband, drawing a groan from the back of his throat as her hands flexed across his stomach and toward his chest.

A loud cry split the air.

Emma broke away, befuddled, blinking her eyes a couple of times until they cleared. She jumped down and scooted around him, leaving him gasping for air and trying to gain control over his overcharged body.

She padded back into the main room of the apartment a few moments later holding her son.

"This is Henry," she said proudly, rubbing the little boy's back while he noisily sucked his thumb.

Killian stepped close, peering into the face of the sleepy child who was eyeing him with simple curiosity.

"He'll probably go back to sleep. Why don't you pour our drinks and join me on the couch?" Her gaze was hopeful, solidifying into relief at his answering smile.

Retrieving his jacket from the floor and laying it across the back of a chair, he poured half a glass of rum and downed it before filling both glasses and carrying them to the living area. It was good he was forced to slow down, to give himself time to get the answers he so desperately sought. She needed to know his intentions, for good or ill.

Emma leaned back on a pillow on one end of the couch, legs outstretched. The remote was in her hand as she lowered the volume of the television; Henry sprawled across her front, tired eyes already closed. Killian handed over her drink and sat near her feet, angling himself so he wouldn't miss a single expression on her gorgeous face, casually draping an arm over the pillows to hide his elation at finally sharing the same space with her.

"I missed you, Jones," she said matter of factly. There was a slight tremor in her voice that gave away her emotion; if he hadn't known her better he might have missed it.

"Good, Swan. I'm glad to hear it," he smirked, raising one brow. Saying he missed her too would be the understatement of the most recent century.

Her eyes darkened, but she let his comment go, the light of the television flickering on the side of her face as she raised her glass to her lips.

Emma Swan. Gods, he wanted her; he always wanted her. But he wanted answers too. Was she a lonely mother looking for a night of passion? Or was she in this for the long haul, like he was? He couldn't accept anything less than forever at this point, or he would extract himself from her life, no matter how difficult, and wait until that forever was his to claim.

"So, Killian," she smiled, pressing a delicate toe into his thigh. "How do you like my apartment?" Her tone was light, as if moments ago she hadn't been devouring him in her tiny kitchen.

.

.

Emma Jamison couldn't believe she was sitting across from Killian Jones. He looked just the same, hair dark and thick, untouched by the ravages of time. His bright blue eyes held the same heady mixture of mischief and tenderness, passion and wisdom.

Now that she knew his desire for her was as fresh as hers, she would wait, let him sweat it out, not that he seemed the least bit uncomfortable lounging against the couch back. She hadn't quite forgiven him for disappearing for a full six years from her life, and she wasn't sure she was ready for him to disappear again, not after catching up for a few days. No, Emma wanted to spend the rest of her life with Killian Jones, assuming he would have her.

"Mmmm," he sighed, savoring his rum while he looked around, his appreciation evident. "It's nice, very domestic. Now, pray tell what you've been doing for the past six years."

She laughed quietly so as not to disturb her son, the back of her throat feeling warm from the rum. It had been ages since she'd had a drink at home, and she liked the familiar setting and the way the drink removed some of her nervousness. "You mean dad didn't fill you in?"

"He did," Killian admitted, catching her eye under his lashes while he smiled knowingly.

Henry sagged against her chest. He was warm, his mouth going slack in between furious bursts of thumb-sucking while he fought the pull of sleep. In a few more minutes she'd be able to slip him back into his bed.

"And you're asking because…"

"Because, Swan, what I really want to ask seems to need a transition of some sort." He sipped his drink dispassionately, as though his comment hadn't been a challenge he knew she would accept.

"My, aren't we direct this evening." She smiled widely over the rim of her glass, settling into their usual banter the way she pulled on her favorite pair of boots. "And what is it you want to know?" She could only guess at his question, but she hoped it involved his staying around awhile.

His eyes gleamed in the low light, a tiny smile tugging his lips. "I despair of breaking good form so early in our re-acquaintance. My question can wait."

"And so propping me on the counter while you ravage my neck doesn't constitute breaking good form?" She raised her brows in question, unable to keep from teasing him even though she knew what he was getting at.

"Nay, love, I'd say that was _very_ good form." The tiny smile broadened until it covered his entire face, willing her to challenge him further and drawing her own answering grin. Since she knew the inevitable conclusion to that conversation, she merely nodded and backed down, for now.

"Fair enough," she replied, and thought she caught the barest hint of disappointment in his gaze. She was grateful for the small talk that would serve as a chance to let the rum start working and hopefully give her the courage she needed to ask him to consider leaving his oversees job and staying with her permanently. "But since you already know everything that's been happening with me, why don't you tell me what you've been up to for the past six years."

He smiled and nodded, picking up one of her feet, and with a brow raised in question, he began a slow, methodical massage at her answering smile. It felt heavenly, and if she wouldn't have been so excited to see him and catch-up with him, she would have fallen asleep under his nimble fingers.

His rolling accent washed over her while he spoke, blue eyes glinting at funny little stories about his ship and his men. He'd spoken of them before, telling her about Smee—who yes, shared the name with the fictional character—and Robin with his son Roland, who loved the adventure of living on a working ship. The Jolly Roger was docked in Storybrooke, a dismal little coastal town that could use a bit of good news he said. The town's name sounded familiar, but her relaxed mind couldn't quite place where she'd heard it.

While Killian and his crew re-supplied the ship, interacting with the residents as necessary, it was Robin who quickly developed a liking for the mayor, a rather uptight woman with a sharp tongue. She definitely returned his affection, unable to hide her attraction behind acerbic comments.

"And I think Robin might eventually be her saving grace if given enough time," he said, pausing to sip his rum. The word 'time' was said with enough inflection so that it hung pregnant over the room, ready to deliver additional heartbreak or maybe, just maybe the fulfillment of all her desires.

Henry's thumb fell from his mouth in a wet plop. Emma shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease her aching lower back.

"Alright there, love?" Killian asked with concern, releasing her ankle.

"Yeah. He's just getting heavy." She slowly inched forward, dropping her feet to the floor, careful not to dislodge her sleeping son.

Killian slid across the couch and stood with her, one hand supporting her elbow and the other on her lower back. His hands were warm and strong, the familiar touch making her blood sing with anticipation of further touches.

Carrying the slumbering toddler to his room, she gently lowered him to his bed, raised his truck blanket to his shoulders and kissed his soft brow. She rubbed her thumb across the tiny cheek, never ceasing to be amazed at how much she loved him and loved motherhood. He was a wonderful child, cheerful and fun and eager to please.

Killian had followed her, the shadows from the small night light playing across his softened features. "You're a good mother, Swan," he whispered, not taking his eyes from the sleeping baby.

His praise rippled down her body like a silk nightgown sliding over freshly showered skin. He was standing close, close enough to feel the heat from his arm even though he wasn't touching her. She turned to leave the room, waiting until he'd followed her out before pulling the door mostly closed and walking back to the living room.

"We've never discussed it, but do you want children of your own?" She cringed after the question left her mouth, unable to hide the desperate longing in her voice. The last thing she needed was for him to think she was a desperate single mother looking to latch onto the first available suitor.

He looked startled by the question, and an odd look passed over his face. "Aye. Very much." He turned away, and she thought for a moment that he seemed sad of all things.

Picking up their now empty glasses, she moved back to the kitchen. "Would you like me to top these off?" she asked, holding up his tumbler from across the room.

"Perhaps we should call it a night, love." He slung his hands low on his hips and watched her.

"Oh. Well, if you're sure. How long are you in town for this time?" she asked as casually as she could manage, hiding her disappointment and wishing she could ask him to stay the night.

"Emma." He ran a hand through his hair in obvious agitation, looking at the floor before turning his gaze up to hers with an intensity she'd only seen a handful of times.

He had called her by name. Her mouth went dry and the dining room that separated them felt like it didn't exist.

"Are you happy? Is this the life you want?" His words were strained, as though her answer mattered more than anything.

Was that the question he wanted to ask her? It took her so off-guard she frowned. "Yes, why?"

He ran his hand through his hair again, the thick mass sticking up every which way as he struggled with what he wanted to say. She set the glasses on the counter and moved toward him, stopping when she was in front of him.

He looked down at her, eyes pleading, voice tender. "Tell me about the last six years. Tell me about Neal. Did he hurt you overmuch?"

She thought of answering flippantly, but he was too upset, his blue eyes stormy with powerful emotion, holding hers with such seriousness that only the truth was possible. "He nearly broke my heart."

Killian flinched, nodding once before turning away from her, staring at the sailboat picture above the couch. It looked almost exactly like the Jolly Roger, bringing memories of fun day-sails with the family when he would come in town.

He turned back, his eyes blazing in fierce remorse. "I'm sorry, love. I'm so sorry. I have very few regrets. But Neal… if I could have saved you from him, please know that I would have."

Her brow crinkled in question. "Saved me? No, it's not like that. Neal and I… We had a good time together, but we weren't very well-suited for each other, not for making a life together. Not to have the kind of marriage my parents have." She hoped he would hear what she didn't say, _Not the kind of marriage I could have with you._

"But he broke your heart," he protested.

"I said he _nearly_ broke my heart, not that he _had_ broken my heart."

Hope flashed across his face in an instant. Emma had never told him about her lifelong crush, and her feelings had only gotten stronger in the time he'd been gone. It had taken everything to keep her wits about her when she crowded him against her table, every bit of self-restraint to mess with him first before she let him kiss her. She wasn't afraid of how she felt about him, and if anything, seeing her own desire mirrored in his eyes only made her bolder.

The question on his face was obvious.

"My heart already belonged to you. It always has," she whispered, clenching her hands to strengthen her resolve to finish her admission. "And I know you must be like 50 years old, but I don't care. I'm never going to love another man as much as I love you." She could feel the defiance in her stance, challenging him to deny her feelings, having pushed the words out with the same fierceness as pushing Henry into the world. And she wouldn't take it back, not for anything, even if he left her. It was the truth.

But he didn't run. He kissed her. With the same fiery truth as her words. His entire body was hot and she groaned into his rum-laced mouth, his hands wrapping around her back to press her against him like he couldn't get close enough.

"No," he moaned, tearing his mouth from hers and gripping her arms. "No. We can't. I… Emma you have to know the truth. Then if you decide you want me, nothing will stop me from staying by your side."

His ragged breathing matched her own. The truth. The words sent little sparks of energy through her limbs ending in flashes of panic. "Of course I want you. That's what I've been trying to say all night," she began, grasping onto the hope that whatever he was about to tell her wouldn't frighten her.

"Come here, lass." The finality in his tone was enough to make her cry, and she knew he feared her rejection as much as he expected it. A wave of grief washed over her as though the rejection had already occurred, and she followed him over to the couch. He sat in the corner, then tugged her to sit in between his legs, his chest hard against her back. His arms encircled her waist, and he thumbed her fingers with his own.

"I have a story to tell you. Are you alright to sit for awhile and listen?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak over the lump in her throat, her heart thumping painfully loud in her ears.

He began haltingly at first, and as soon as she recognized the story, she relaxed into his hold, letting his deep voice rumble through her chest. The story was a grand adventure involving Killian and a woman named Emma Swan, a chronicle of a love so strong that it had survived trials of strength and character and faith. Emma loved that she shared the name of the main character, loved that Killian had always called her 'Swan' as though he thought of her the same way. And even though the tale was familiar, she listened to him spellbound, the same way she listened to all his stories.

_Storybrooke. _The Jolly Roger was docked in the same town as the one in the story, that's why she recognized the name. It was only mentioned a couple of times—once during Emma Swan's explanation of where she'd come from and again during the curse.

The inscription tattooed on his arm and on her back had been engraved on cursed wedding rings, the words eventually acting as the key to unlock the door of time.

When he finished, ending with her favorite part, where he sends his true love through the door of time, only to wait until he should be reunited with her, she sighed in satisfied contentment.

"I love that story," she hummed. "You're such a wonderful writer. Have you thought about publishing it?" She turned in his arms, placing a hand on his chest to support herself into a sitting position.

"Come again?" He seemed to be stuck in that other world, and his eyes cleared only after he'd asked the question.

She smiled affectionately. "The story. It's timeless. I think you could easily sell it." His perplexed expression didn't change and her smile began to falter as she picked up on his nonverbal cues.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he took his time choosing his words, regarding her with honest eyes. "The story is true, love. Emma Swan is you. You were the one who fell through time, arresting me with your beauty and your mettle. It's you I've been awaiting for centuries."

He paused a minute, as if giving her a chance to digest what he was telling her. "And because I knew who you were and what your future held, I was able to intervene a bit here and there in your life, as you've aged."

His gaze fell from her face, and he shifted uncomfortably, speaking quietly. "It might not have been the right thing to do, to change your past, but gods, Swan, I'd pictured you thousands of times as a lost child, with no one to love…" His fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt in a feeble attempt to hold onto her, even as she inched away from him.

Everything in her screamed that he was telling the truth. And everything in her wanted it to be true. But mythical creatures? Time portals? Shape-shifting Mac and white fox Isobel? How was any of it possible in the real world? She put some space between them, sitting upright on the edge of the couch.

Her brain filled with images of the Emma in the story—her older self if all of this was true—of the resigned way she viewed her past, like a crappy childhood was normal, contrasted to her own life. Her attentive parents had provided love and stability, and Killian's own intermittent presence in her life had been no less significant.

"Haven't you ever wondered why I never age?" he continued sadly, noticing her withdrawal.

"Well, yeah, but I just thought you had really good genes," she replied skeptically, wondering what he was getting at.

"It's because no one ages in Neverland. Time stands still there. And I've been hiding out for three centuries until I could meet you. Physically, I'm most likely 28 or 29 years of age."

.

.

Emma's lips parted in stunned disbelief. He watched her gaze travel over his upper half, studying the color of his hair and the lines in his face.

"Hold on a minute. I need a minute." He sat up, reaching his hands toward her waist to keep her from running, but she pushed them away, standing on shaky legs and leaving the room. This was it. This was where she told him he was mad and wanted him to leave. This was why he'd left his pack in the hallway. He sighed heavily, ready to face the long prospect of winning her heart once again. With Emma, he would have to move slowly, and hopefully he could gain her trust before she turned 28 and was needed to break the curse.

She returned holding out a small leather-bound journal. "This. I've read it over and over, and you're telling me that everything in this book is true?"

He took it from her. _To Killian Jones…_ it said across the first page. Every word was imprinted upon his heart as though he'd written it in his own blood. His journal.

Killian had retrieved the journal from beneath the deck of the Jolly nearly 200 years before, the day after the lost boys had raided his ship and he'd come precariously close to losing his precious opal. It still contained all his memories, and he used it over the years to refresh his mind whenever he was going through a particularly difficult time. He had clutched the opal and wrote, the words falling onto the page with little effort, reliving each beloved memory from the time he stepped through the waterfall door to rescue Emma Swan until he should send her back through the door of time with a vow to wait.

The last time he'd seen the journal was when he'd placed it in Jamison's hands the morning after his night with an 18 year old Emma. If his old friend read it, he would understand the importance of Neal in Emma's timeline, in case her father had any doubts about bringing them together. Henry was the main reason she wanted to return to her own time.

"Jamison gave it to you," he stated, looking up as she hovered over him and waged her own war between truth and impossibility.

"After Neal left. Dad thought it would make things easier. He knew how I felt about you, and I guess he was looking to cheer me up." She looked away, a frown settling on her gentle mouth. "You really did know about Neal," she added, her words holding an edge that hadn't been there before.

He nodded sadly. "I knew you would never want to live your life without Henry."

She was quiet a moment, although he knew her thoughts were anything but. "I wondered. I overheard Dad muttering to himself over one of his projects, 'damn Cap'n'. Neal. Not good enough fer my girl. Fate, my arse,' she imitated in a rather good imitation of Jamison's brogue.

"That sounds like him." Killian chuckled lightly, careful lest he minimize her internal struggle. "He didn't tell you the story was real?" Killian asked, although he thought he could understand his friend's reasoning. Killian knew how much Jamison loved his daughter. The journal also disclosed Jamison's past, and he was most likely reluctant to risk her possible inability to accept the truth, in case it should interfere in their close father-daughter relationship.

"No. But I didn't ask. I assumed it was a really great love story written by his best friend, and he gave it to me to cheer me up." She plopped down on the couch next to him and smoothed the front of her tank before turning to look at him, her features no longer holding the malleable look of conflict.

"Are you telling me the truth, Killian? You have to know how this sounds, but I've never known you to be crazy." She spoke quietly, as if admitting out loud that he was mad would make it true.

"Ask him. Ask Jamison. He's lived as long as I have, in Neverland with me. They're not chronicled here, but he could tell you stories that would curl your toes about our altercations with Peter Pan, about the time the Jolly Roger nearly fell apart in one particularly harrowing portal-jump."

She watched him skeptically, her head tilting to the side as her brow furrowed together. Killian could read her thoughts as she considered that her father had never been known to lie.

He'd been here before. Ages ago. During a curse. When he had had to convince her of something she couldn't see. But there was a difference now. "I can prove it, milady." His lips pulled into a broad grin.

"Really," she stated rather than asked. A tiny smile hinted around the corners of her mouth and her eyes lightened perceptibly. She studied him closely, clearly wanting to believe him. It warmed his heart to know she had no reason to be as suspicious as she had been in the other timeline.

He leaned forward, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a bean. "Come with me," he offered. "Come to Neverland and I'll show you a land fraught with danger and a dark forest, with waters as crystal clear as a cloudless sky. I can promise you an adventure as wild as your imagination."

Looking down at his hand, she touched the bean. "I swear if this is some big joke, I'm killing you." She leaned forward and tapped her fist against his torso in gentle protest.

He caught her hand and trapped it against his chest, his heart thudding against her splayed fingers. "No different than the countless times you already have, love." He pulled her into his embrace, hugging her tightly to him, loving the feel of her curves that fit into his body as though they had been carved by the same artist.

"I can't go away with you. Henry's still a baby and from what you've told me about life aboard the great Jolly Roger, _roughing it_ wouldn't exactly be easy with a two-year old."

She toyed with the buttons of his shirt, her touch beginning to enflame rather than soothe. She shifted a little, until she was captured between his thighs. His thoughts drifted away from the conversation and toward the sheer physicality of the woman he held, the woman he loved with his entire being.

"I understand, love," he told her, distracted by her foot trailing up his leg, by her face nuzzling the side of his neck, by the smell of her hair and the feel of her thin waist beneath his hands.

"Can you stay, Killian?" she whispered against his neck, then nipped the skin beneath her lips.

"My clothing…" He shivered involuntarily, her mouth dawdling on a sensitive spot on his throat, sending vibrations of pleasure through his limbs as they trapped her wholly against his body.

"I was thinking you wouldn't need your clothes," she purred, moving upward and tracing her teeth along his jaw.

"My clothing," he continued, as her head came up to watch his response, "is in the hallway."

She smiled widely. "Killian Jones, ever the gentleman, would never push himself on an unsuspecting female," she stated as though she were outlining his qualifications. Tilting her head to the side, she grew serious. "What if I told you I didn't want you to stay for just a few days."

"I'd say you might not have much of a choice." He flipped her over, covering her with his body, her own arching up to meet him.

"So you're pushing yourself on me _now_," she smirked.

"Only _now_ that I'm assured of your answer."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. Mating his mouth to hers in a slow and delicious kiss, he let himself finally take the time to rediscover his Swan. Her breath hitched against his mouth then released into his, and he swallowed her moan with one of his own. He wanted to fuse into her, to unite his soul with hers, to savor every touch, every curve of her face, every pause and sigh. She tangled her legs with his, no longer toying with the buttons of his shirt, but tracing her fingers in an arousing path down his torso as she released each one. His mouth found her cheek, her throat, her neck, always tasting while her hands smoothed the skin of his stomach and wrapped around his back.

Killian Jones had patiently waited over 300 years for this day, the day when Emma Swan would agree to be his. There was no reason to go back to Neverland now; he had no intention of leaving her side, and would usher her into her next appointment with destiny personally—breaking Storybrooke's curse. Elation flooded over and through him, and his desire for gradual exploration of her body sped away on that wave. Maybe they could go slowly the second time.

**So I know several of you thought I might make Henry Killian's baby, but changing his father would change the child, and Emma has to go back to her Henry, not a different child fathered by Killian. And my beta believes that Emma's "Henry-egg" would have been long gone four years later, but I'm going with the premise that this story has elements of fate in it, so it was fate for her "Henry-egg" to still be viable. And now you see what a good beta really does! ;D**

**A/N I have a question for all my loyal readers and reviewers. I had planned on wrapping everything up in one more chapter, skimming through details without fleshing them out. Do you want me to end the story earlier or do you want a few more glimpses into Emma's and Killian's life? Even if you decide you want a little more, it would likely only add one extra chapter. It's fine either way, just let me know in the review box, and majority rules! Much love to you all, ~DD**


	37. Neither Can Eternity Extinguish It

_This chapter is dedicated to Lifeinthewoods, whose real-life experiences inspired a following section. You'll know when you get to it, my friend. Thinking about you and sending warm thoughts…_

_Beta-read by the adroit lethemoirai._

_And thanks to Commandante Theresa for her ideas on how to wrap this beast up!_

_Previously, _In An Age Cannot Sate Love_:_

_While Killian is away, Emma dates Neal during college. She gets pregnant just before graduation, and Neal leaves her after meeting August. She gives birth to Henry with her mother by her side. By the time Killian returns, another two years has passed. He appears on her doorstep with no warning, and never leaves. This chapter picks up just after the previous one._

_A/N Everything in italics is a memory of what Emma sees through the door of time. Anything in real time is not italicized, as happens when a scene is given from Killian's point of view. Everyone voted unanimously for more glimpses into their lives, so that's what we have, quick glimpses. Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 37: Neither Can Eternity Extinguish It

* * *

_Elizabeth Jamison's quiet laughter bubbled in from the living room as she watched Henry play cars on the rug with Killian, their "zoom-zooms" lively and cheerful. The sounds filled the silence like the soap bubbles filled the sink as Emma and her father washed the dinner dishes. Her father had been quiet throughout the evening, and she had been overly aware of his careful study of Killian's interactions with Henry and with her._

_When Jamison finally spoke, his voice was so soft she had to lean sideways to hear him. "I don't need to tell ye I don' think a man exists on this earth that'd be good enough for ye." Emma looked up from the dish she was drying, her father's expression indicating he felt perfectly justified in his opinions. _

_His comment was to be expected given his narrow-lipped reactions to Neal and to the occasional man she mentioned over the dinner table. She had dated since Neal, although not extensively, since few men her age wanted the responsibility that came with a single mother._

"_But I'll admit the cap'n comes mighty close," he muttered almost begrudgingly, his mustache tweaking sideways with the admission._

_Setting the plate aside, Emma wrapped her arms around her father's waist, the niggling fear of his possible disapproval evaporating. Nudging his elbow over her neck, he tugged her into his side, his head bending to place a kiss on her hair. "I love ye, lil' one." _

_The flannel of his shirt was soft against her cheek as she nodded. It had been a long time since he'd called her that, a long time since she'd wanted or needed his approval on something so big. _

"_Does Mom know?" she asked when they'd broken apart and continued washing. _

_She didn't have to clarify. Jamison knew exactly what she meant as usual, picking up the vein of her thoughts as adeptly as he always had. "You mean how old we really are?" he replied with another twitch of his mustache._

"_Yeah," she grinned, trying to imagine her gentle mother's reaction. A mother who could be very vocal and opinionated when given the chance, but who was otherwise as sweet as they came. _

"_Nay, lass. And I'm not likely to tell 'er." He wrung the dish cloth and rinsed his hands, reaching for the towel Emma held to dry them, and then turned to rest against the sink while watching his wife through the doorway._

"_Has she read the story?"_

_He shook his head. "I once tried to say something, asked her what she thought about traveling through portals as it were." The wry shake of his head told Emma the conversation hadn't gone well. "No, yer muther is a verra practical woman, and not likely to change. I'll not have 'er upset unnecessarily."_

"_But you don't mind my knowing."_

_He exhaled heavily through his nose and his lips tightened so much half his mustache curled into his mouth. "Hmpf. I gave ye the book, but I didna tell ye the story was true," he admitted, as if disappointed in himself. "Nay, I worrit ye might look at me differently. But then I realized regardless of how ye saw me, Cap'n's been rewriting your history for a long time, and it wasna my place to intervene." He pressed his hands into the counter at his back, still staring straight ahead._

_Emma finished her chore and mimicked his position, following his line of sight. Killian looked up and momentarily raised his brows in her direction, never missing a beat in whatever he was telling her mother._

"_That's just it, Dad. I've lived another life? A whole life that's been completely changed? I can't wrap my head around the Emma in the story, the one whose past was so difficult. She would have been through so many experiences to make her into the woman Killian fell in love with. How can I ever measure up?"_

_He turned toward her. "Is that what ye're worrit aboot?"_

"_How can I not be? I know what he says…" She paused, her face heating up under his gaze, "but sometimes I catch him looking at me sadly, and I can't figure why."_

"_Have ye asked him? It's not like the cap'n to avoid difficult questions. Not at our age." One side of his mouth turned up into a half-grin, and he bumped her shoulder, lessening her fears with the companionable touch. No matter what happened, her father would be there for her._

_It took her a moment to realize he was right. "No. I haven't." The simple confession blew her worries away like a deep breath calms anxiety. Killian was most definitely not Neal, and wouldn't ignore her fears or avoid a conversation about their future._

"_Lass." Her father reached for her, his long arms wrapping all the way around her body in a protective cocoon. "I spent a couple of days with ye in the other timeline. Ye weren't much different than ye are now. Perhaps a bit jumpier, but that was understandable given the situation. 'Twas easy to see why the Cap'n fell in love wit' ye then, and no less now."_

_Emma stood in the kitchen and hugged her father, unable to imagine her life in that other timeline without him. He and her mother had been her anchors for so long, and now with Killian by her side, she could have a family just like the one that had raised her. _

====o0I0o====

Two days ago Killian had knocked on Emma's door with his heart in his hands, the apprehension of six years of waiting making it difficult to stand still while she answered it. Now he lounged on her couch as though he'd never been away, holding her in his arms while his fingers traced her soft skin, blankly staring at the flashing images on the television screen. Henry had fallen asleep on the car ride home from Jamison's and was already in bed.

He had done it. He had managed to survive 300 years of waiting for his true love. But as he sat on the brink of their life together, a tiny frisson of disquiet threatened his newfound euphoria, so much so that if he could, he would squeeze their little family into a bottle and toss it in the ocean where they would ride the waves of life locked together, forever. Playing cars with Henry, chatting with Elizabeth while Emma spoke with Jamison after a delightful family supper was every bit the normal life Killian had coveted since the bastardized version of it during the curse, added to the memories of his life as Captain Hook married to Emma in the alternate timeline.

At least he had time; Smee would look after the ship with Robin's help for repairs if necessary—Robin was eternally grateful to Killian for saving Roland and him from the curse—so Killian was free to remain with Emma in Portland indefinitely, until he had to bring her to Storybrooke on her 28th birthday.

"Is this what you want?" Emma asked abruptly. "I mean, you asked me what I wanted, but what about you?" There was worry in her voice even though she did her best to sound casual.

"Why do you ask?"

Emma pushed up, turning to face him. "Don't get me wrong, it's been a weekend of bliss, but I have to think about Henry. He adores you… already." A tiny smile adorned her lovely face, but her eyes were sad. "And if you decide a boring life in the city isn't what you want, the heartbreak won't be good for him."

She was a good mother; he had told her so his first night there, and spending the weekend with her only solidified his opinion into a conclusion.

"Not good for Henry, or for you?" he goaded, never tiring of hearing how she felt about him. He held her eyes for a long moment, and he knew it was bad form to tease her when she was serious, but he couldn't help trying to put a smile on her beautiful face.

She beheld him with a skeptical brow, her lips surrendering to a partial grin. "You know exactly what I mean, captain." She turned serious again, her eyes shying away, her fingers tightening around the hem of her shirt as she straightened it. "You've lived an adventure that only happens in dreams, and I'm… well, me. This is my life, every day, every weekend. The occasional outing to the park or the toy store is about as exciting as it gets… Really, is this what you want?"

He didn't mean for his laugh to bark out the way it did, to sound as though he weren't taking her seriously. Her cheeks turned rosy, indicating that's exactly how she'd taken it.

Untangling her fingers from her shirt, he smoothed her hands flat beneath his. "Emma, love, you'd be surprised at how dull waiting can be." He tugged her back into his arms, the idea of being able to hold her as such without having to leave in a few days filling him with even more excitement than the anticipation of their first meeting all those years ago.

"And if you remember, I spent more than half a year living with you in the cursed Storybrooke. We woke up, went to work, came home, prepared supper and retired to the couch, much like we are now," he added.

"And it was enough?" Her words were tentative, seeking affirmation.

"Well…"

She started to raise her head in alarm, but he pushed her back down with a quiet chuckle, continuing to rub up and down her spine until her body relaxed under his touch. "Aye, it was enough, lass. During the curse I learned that we didn't need constant adventure to keep our relationship going. I was as content with you in quiet as I was when we faced something fearsome."

"Oh," she sighed into his chest.

He knew it was hard for her to comprehend what he had endured while waiting for her. And he also knew she trusted him and Jamison more than she believed their story. But it was more than enough, for now.

====o0I0o====

_The day was clear and warm, a breeze blowing across the backyard of her childhood home. Friends and extended family surrounded them, including several of Killian's crew members that she'd met only a handful of times. Henry and her mother stood off to the side, Elizabeth's hands curling over his tiny shoulders to keep him in place until they should need the rings. They stood under a handmade arbor, fashioned by her father and darkly stained, wound with long-stemmed coral-colored roses. Killian wore a white tuxedo shirt with no jacket and his black boots—in case she should forget who she was marrying, he said. Her white dress swooped over one shoulder to a fitted bodice, then hung straight in several layers of delicate chiffon. She loved her dress; it made her feel like a princess._

"_I, Killian Jones, take thee Emma Jamison, to be my lawful wife. To have and to hold… tightly and often," he said under his breath, and actually smirked in the middle of his vows, "from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, beyond death and time." He winked at her, having changed the traditional 'til death do us part', his expression speaking of centuries of memories. Emma was struck once again with the realization that she had never done anything to deserve this kind of love, but she set her mind to spending the rest of her life being worthy of it._

_"I, Emma Jamison, take thee Killian Jones, to be my lawful husband, to have and to hold…" she paused, smiling widely and mouthing 'tightly and often,' " from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, beyond death and time." _

_Her words echoed Killian's rather than the minister's, ringing out like the kind of promise that made smiles falter and throats swallow thickly. It was a vow that held weight, and everyone there knew it. Emma shivered at the same time as Killian, binding themselves to each other in this world and the next._

_The minister cleared his throat, most likely to begin the ring exchange, but Killian tugged on her hands, keeping her attention on him._

"_I've lived my entire life on the water since before I came of age. The only times I've lived as a landlubber has been with you." His blue eyes twinkled with playfulness, and he dipped his head to kiss the backs of both her hands. "Emma Swan Jamison, I don't miss the ocean when you're near."_

_She knew exactly what he meant. Delicately removing her hand from his, she swiped at the gathering tears underneath her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. "Killian Jones, we won't mention how long I've been in love with you, but let's just say I'm glad you never decided to adopt me." _

"_The thought never entered my mind, love." He grinned and gave her a look she hoped no one else recognized, her cheeks blooming under his indecent gaze._

_She squeezed his hands and lifted up to give him a kiss, eternally grateful for the way her life had played out. _

"_Not yet!" the minister exclaimed. Happy chuckles surrounded them like a buoyant wind and she smiled at her handsome man, dark hair blowing in the breeze, his white shirt practically glowing against the hair peeking from his open collar._

_They exchanged rings, the gold warm against her cool fingers. Killian's eyes lingered on the bands, as if in remembrance of another time, of the culmination to lifetimes of love._

====o0I0o====

Emma stood in the hallway of the door of time, chasing one door after another as they opened and closed more quickly now, her memories filling in the details between scenes. One image was of Killian and a four-year old Henry making breakfast, thinking she was still asleep even while she lurked around the corner of their hallway. Her hand hid her gentle laugh while Killian showed the boy how to pour pancakes, keeping an arm around his small waist to prevent his burning himself on the stove. "Tisit right, Pop?" her son asked, placing a floured handprint against Killian's face, leaving a white smudge on his dark beard. Killian nodded, blue eyes thickening slightly as he gazed upon the son he loved as his own.

There were memories of mornings grabbing a couple of pieces of toast and a cup of coffee from Killian's hands, a quick kiss before she hurried to bring Henry to school and head off to her job at the state police as head detective, Killian's hours as harbor master being more flexible. Of Friday night trips to the pizza parlor, pepperoni pizza and cokes all around, Killian holding Henry while they played pinball in the arcade portion, Emma and sometimes her parents their tiny cheering section. Of evening walks along the beach during the summer months, picking up hermit crabs and interesting shells, watching Henry chase the waves while she and Killian held hands.

They were obviously happy, and they rarely argued. If something came up, they would sit down and discuss it. And if either one of them was too angry, they committed to waiting for cooler heads to prevail before engaging the difficult conversations. But mostly, maneuvering life together was easy.

When the next door opened, as soon as Emma understood what was going on, she gasped in a cross between wonder and delight.

====o0I0o====

Killian Jones slouched against the headboard, his lower half covered by the blanket. It was Saturday night, Henry was already in bed, and he waited for Emma to emerge from the washroom, anticiptating whatever type of eccentric undergarment she had been able to find for under $5. It was their monthly ritual, and she always managed to surprise him with the barmy textiles available in this land.

"Oi, Swan, come on then," he hollered from the bed, his wardrobe choice cutting into his nether regions.

She glided into the room wearing a ship captain's hat, white with a blue brim, and one he wouldn't be caught dead in. But his eyes didn't linger on her head, they continued sweeping downward, taking in the matching navy blue nightgown, transparent and sparkling with each shift of her skin like the sun glinting off the waves on a beautiful day. "Bloody hell," he mumbled. She must have rejected eccentric in favor of gorgeous and deliberately arousing. Every muscle in his body tightened in sinful anticipation. She stopped just shy of the bed, green eyes shining with barely-concealed excitement, when he finally noticed she was holding something behind her back.

"I have something to tell you," she chimed, her voice gliding over his skin like the nightgown over hers, and he would give anything to have more than just her voice doing such things to his body.

He hid his smile, even while loving the torment of delay, how taking their time was sometimes better than rapidly disrobing and getting down to business. "What is it then, I'm feeling rather impatient, love," he demanded in a mock-stern voice, lowering his brows but unable to completely keep the corners of his mouth from turning up.

She pulled a white plastic stick from behind her back, wiggling it back and forth between her fingers. "Know what this is?"

A memory suddenly flooded his mind, of a furious and hurt Emma emerging from their cursed Storybrooke bathroom holding an identical stick. His heart immediately seized as he realized what she was saying, and he couldn't help but search her face, making sure she felt the same as he did. They hadn't exactly been trying for a baby, but they hadn't been preventing either.

The discomfort from his wardrobe choice was completely forgotten. "It's…"

"Yeah, Captain," she purred, fingering the brim of the hat, "looks like you're going to have another crewman."

He threw back the covers and grabbed her, and was about to pull her against his body, just to alleviate the sudden chasm his heart had created moments ago when it escaped his chest to go and fuse with hers. _A child._ _Their child._

But her hands splayed across his torso, stopping her forward motion; she pushed back, gaping downward in positive disbelief. "What are you even wearing?"

It took him a second to gather his thoughts with the abrupt subject change, but he did, letting his elation carry over into an all-knowing smirk. By the look on her face, he knew he'd outdone himself with the thong in a plaid that rivaled the worst golfing trousers he'd ever had the misfortune to behold. Stepping off the bed, he spun around slowly, flexing every part of his naked backside in a popping rhythm. "Does it meet the lady's requirements?"

She curled into herself, hilarity overtaking her entire body until she collapsed onto the bed. And even though she presented a delicious picture, her laughter was too contagious, and he followed, no sound coming out of their mouths except the occasional gasp for breath.

He didn't think he could be happier. It was only later, when he held her in his arms, hand cupping her still-flat belly as they drifted off to sleep, that he wondered about another baby in another time.

====o0I0o====

_The day was warm and beautiful, just like her mother. The collection of friends and family gathered around the gravesite in clothes that matched their moods. Tentative smiles and careful touches graced the assembly, and Emma almost felt sorry for everyone there. Everyone who didn't know what to do with their hands or what to say with their words._

_She was sad, beyond sad if the truth be told, but she felt relieved too. Her mother had been sick for just under a year, and Emma had been able to walk with her through the cancer every step of the way. Those precious months had strengthened their relationship, her mother able to purge herself of her past joys as well as regrets. Their time together had been a gift, and Emma was glad her mother's suffering was at an end; it had been a very difficult journey. One of the few comforts she had was that Elizabeth had been able to meet Emma's second born son, Liam Aiden Jones, born two months previously._

_She squeezed her dad's hand as the minister likened death to another step in the journey and so on, words meant to comfort the grieving. Jamison would most likely take her mother's death the hardest, and she was determined to be with him as much as possible. She and Killian already had plans to temporarily relocate to her family home, just so Jamison wouldn't be alone. _

_Ever practical, Jamison agreed._

====o0I0o====

_They never did return to their apartment, and by the time her 28__th__ birthday rolled around, Henry six years old and Liam one, they all piled up in the yellow Volkswagon her dad had bought her for graduation. With Jamison following in his truck, they crossed the Storybrooke line._

====o0I0o====

_Killian had told her that the short-haired teacher was her actual mother, even though the tiny woman looked her age or at most one year older, and that the blond headed man who worked at the animal shelter was her father. She definitely favored the man's looks. It was difficult to think of him as her father yet, not when she already had one, or one that seemed to be almost avoiding her. Jamison had ensconced himself on the Jolly Roger as though he'd never left and rarely came out._

_Several of the residents were welcoming and kind, and others, like the mayor, somewhat abrasive. Killian gave Emma a rundown of the situation, of Regina Mills having cast a curse over the Enchanted Forest, robbing everyone of their happy endings while hopefully securing her own. From what Emma could tell though, the mayor certainly hadn't found hers yet. However, if the chemistry sparking between the mayor and Robin Hood was any indication, she might be well on her way to finding one._

_They secured an apartment soon after arriving, dealing with the creepy Mr. Gold, whose eyes seemed to follow her with interest even while they followed Killian with the look of near-recognition. Killian of course knew exactly who he was, the ex-husband of his former, albeit short-lived, paramour, as well as the Dark One and the man on whom his alter-ego sought revenge._

_Emma secured a job as a deputy at the sheriff's station, working under Graham Humbert. He was kind but somewhat aloof, almost depressed, his mood corresponding to the rest of the town's. The sooner she could break the curse, the better. _

====o0I0o====

"I jes don' think 'e's capable of anythin' other than bein' a lily-livered sorry excuse fer a man!" Jamison nearly shouted. "Who cheats on his wife and can't stand up fer anythin'?" he growled.

"To be fair, Jamison, the man is cursed. Surely you understand that," Killian said. "And he's her father. You simply cannot continue to stand in the way of Emma getting to know the man!"

Killian stood on the opposite side of the bar in the tight galley, hoping to convince Jamison to cease the brooding that kept Emma skittish around her adoptive father, even while she tried to get to know her biological.

"I've done nothin' of the sort. I keep to meself on this here ship, scrubbin' and fixin' after the years of indifference…" Jamison eyed Killian narrowly, charging him with the crime of neglecting his ship for far too long. Killian merely stared back, waiting for Jamison to realize the truth.

Jamison took a deep breath and turned around, gripping the wooden counter as he accepted responsibility for his actions, visibly bringing himself back under control.

Placing a hand on his back, Killian drew his friend's gaze. "I know how hard this is without Elizabeth."

Jamison softened, shoulders sagging further if that were possible. "Aye, I know ye do. It helps. I jes don' think I can lose Emma too."

There it was, Jamison's real fear. "You're not losing Emma, old friend. But you taught her to love and accept people, and to want to help. This entire town is stranded in the middle of a curse that Emma has to break. And kissing Henry like she did in the other timeline is obviously no longer an option. She believes that getting to know some of the residents will help her find a way. And that starts with her parents. I promise, once the curse is broken, you'll come to appreciate David's mettle; he's not himself at the moment."

Jamison nodded and stepped away from Killian's touch, busying himself with chopping carrots for what was likely to be a big pot of delicious stew. "I'll manage, Cap'n," he gruffed.

Killian left him alone with his thoughts, visiting his cabin to continue the process of clearing out and moving his more beloved keepsakes to his home. Jamison understood the situation, and that would have to be enough for now. Once the curse was broken, he planned on stocking the Jolly Roger and taking his family and best friend on a mini-excursion to clear their minds of the oppressiveness that draped over the town like the low-hanging clouds of a very bad storm.

====o0I0o====

"_David!" Emma screamed, running her hands over his chest, searching for injuries. They had finally found him in the forest, half-buried under a pile of leaves, his lips blue from the cold. He still had a pulse, but it was faint. Emma had seen the pallor of death before, and although she no longer recoiled from it, the look of it on the man whose face she shared filled her with fear._

_Killian was by her side in seconds, part of the second search party formed after Mary Margaret had been implicated in David's disappearance, since the entire town knew David had dumped her in his quest to try and rekindle his marriage. A knife had been found in Mary Margaret's apartment, supposedly wiped clean of blood, although the lab tests confirmed residual cells matching David's DNA. Emma didn't believe it for a second, but had to follow the letter of the law until it could be disproved._

_Using her cell phone to dial the ambulance, Killian removed David's overcoat and replaced it with his own warmer one. The search party was called off and several residents helped carry David's body out of the forest where they could meet the ambulance at the roadside._

_Nights in hospitals stretched out interminably, Emma knew from experience, but she never left her father's side. It was odd to think of him that way, odd when Jamison had always occupied that title in her mind. If anything, David was more like an older brother. She had been drawn to him from the first, having liked his small jokes and easy ways. _

_David had confided in her about his feelings for Mary Margaret, stuck in his loveless marriage but unsure how to remove himself from its confines the way a gentleman would. She tried to encourage him to follow his heart, fully understanding the happiness that awaited him. But it wasn't his way; he was too worried about hurting anyone. In some ways, he reminded her of her dad, the way his presence in a room was always sensed, even if the man never spoke a word._

_And as if the similarities couldn't bear to end there, Mary Margaret, Henry's teacher, was much like her own mother, dark-haired and beautiful, kind and gentle to a fault. She and Emma had met for coffee several times, at first to discuss Henry's transitioning into a new school, and then because they had so much in common. She had fast become one of Emma's favorite people._

_Dr. Whale entered the hospital room as he made his morning rounds, a clipboard hanging loosely from his side. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing to be done for him. I've run every test I can think of. There's no physical reason for him to be in a coma, yet he is."_

"_How long?" Emma croaked, her voice scratchy from disuse. Killian had gone home hours ago to tend to the children, leaving her with a kiss and an admonishment to get some rest if she could._

"_There's no way to know. His brain patterns indicate he's in an extended period of deep sleep, but as you can see, he's impossible to wake up."_

_As soon as the words left Dr. Whale's mouth, Emma felt her stomach drop to her toes. This was the magic Killian had been telling her about for years, magic she had accepted as being part of his life, but never quite believed was possible. Did true love's kiss even exist? Killian said it was strong enough to break any curse, and it was entirely possible David had been cursed._

_Her nerves tingled all over her body. Would he awaken and prove that magic was real? Or as she feared, would nothing whatsoever happen? Did she love David enough to do this?_

_One thing was sure, she had nothing to lose. _

_Stepping over to his bedside, Emma gently brushed the hair from his cool forehead, lowering her head to place a gentle kiss on his brow. "I love you, dad," she whispered, and meant it. _

_The resulting whoosh of energy nearly threw her, the attending nurse, and a watching Whale backward. It was early morning, and the gray clouds instantly cleared, bright sunlight streaming through the half-closed blinds of the window._

_Emma didn't realize she was watching the play of colors outside until she heard David's voice. "Emma?"_

_He was sitting up, Dr. Whale looking wide-eyed around the room before darting off. "Snow!" David suddenly gasped._

_He moved quickly, pulling on a jacket over his hospital gown, dragging pants over his legs. "I have to get to her!" he cried, stopping just long enough to cup Emma's cheek before bounding out of the room._

_Emma's smile followed him from the room, wonder accompanying a peaceful satisfaction. Her husband had been right about magic all along; she should have never harbored a doubt. In future, she would be certain not to._

====o0I0o====

As David raced out of the hospital room and the door began to close on the scene, Emma's mind played a cascade of memories filling in the missing information. Regina had poisoned David in one last attempt to keep Snow and Charming apart. Several interrogations with the broken queen revealed her raging guilt over stealing her subjects' happy endings, especially with the possibility of her own happy ending so near. That guilt spurred her to embrace her evil self, since she could never hope to deserve the family Robin and Roland embodied.

Another door on the right opened up, Emma stepping toward it as she considered the implications of gaining Regina's cooperation much sooner in the new timeline than she had in the other. Emma didn't serve as competition for Henry's affections in this timeline, giving the two women time to build a relationship out of respect.

Turning the corner and lifting her head to view the noisy scene, Emma gripped the door frame. Killian threw a bean at the floor just as the wraith approached, the swirling cloud sucking the black body into the center of its mass. And just the same as Emma remembered, she was sucked into the portal as well. But rather than her mother jumping in to follow her, Killian hurled himself into the maelstrom, headfirst.

The portal closed and the next scene showed them waking with groans at the point of Mulan's sword, Aurora standing off to the side and looking uncomfortable. Mulan tied them to the back of a horse and made them walk the long distance to their camp.

What made Emma nearly laugh at the altered memory was that her younger counterpart railed into Killian the entire walk, furious with him for not staying behind to look after their children. He listened for a long while, calmly seeming to consider her words.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" angry Emma asked, keeping herself as far away from her husband as possible.

Although her younger self didn't seem to notice, Aurora and Mulan exchanged a couple of looks that suggested maybe they were wrong for taking them prisoner, although they were enjoying the mostly one-sided argument.

"Relax," Killian stated.

"That's it?!"

"Emma. Between Mary Margaret and two doting grandfathers, our progeny are likely to think they're on the best holiday ever. So aye, love, relax. We have bigger problems. Besides, if it's any consolation, we've been through worse." He winked at her, looking as though he didn't have a care in the world.

Emma Jones smiled from the doorway, knowing now that Killian most definitely spoke the truth. They had been through worse, several times. And they had endured and conquered it all.

Later, it would be Killian who insisted on traveling to the top of the beanstalk to retrieve the compass with the notorious Captain Hook, whose ship was called "Milah's Revenge."

* * *

**Aright, me hardies, only one chapter left to tie everything together! Hope you've enjoyed this journey as much as I have. I love hearing from you all—I can't tell you how many times I've read through reviews to keep the spark of writing alive. Pop me a line if you can. XXOO, ~DD**


	38. Who Decides What We See: Final Part

_Dedicated to all my lovely readers who didn't give up on this story, even when Emma's choices might have angered you. This chapter gives you the reason for it all, finally! _

_Beta-read by the ingenious lethemoirai, whose suggestions and comments added dimension to this story in so many ways. I will never forget your hard work. ;D_

_And so, without further ado, previously in _An Age Cannot Sate Love_:_

_Emma has been traveling through the door of time, reliving memories of her original timeline, juxtaposed against a timeline Killian altered by way of his intervention early on in Emma's childhood, providing a stability she hadn't known in the original. In the new timeline, Emma has Henry when she's 22, marries Killian when she's 24, has another son (Liam), and still travels to Storybrooke with her family (including Jamison) when she's 28. She breaks the curse using true love's kiss on David. _

_Once again, the italicized sections represent Emma's flashbacks, the regular type is occurring in real time._

* * *

Chapter 38: Who Decides What We See, Final part

* * *

_Emma stretched her arms overhead with the languidness of a cat, Killian's roaming fingers waking her with his ever-ready desire, it not having cooled one whit after several years of marriage. He said it was because she was aging as well as a bottle of expensive rum, kissing away the tiny wrinkles around her eyes, tracing the stretch marks from her two pregnancies with his fingers, drawing gooseflesh across her lower abdomen. He called them her battle scars, and revealed his own with the question, "Do you love me any less for mine?" Of course he already knew the answer, and she only drew him down to her, filled with desire for the touch of the only man she had ever loved._

_Their love-making was delicious and fulfilling, morphing into a quick double shower with nips along the shoulders as they switched positions so she could rinse while he soaped up, rushing their morning routine to make it to her appointment on time. Killian would get the boys on the bus._

_Accepting a coffee from Killian's hands with a large grin communicating more than just a simple thanks, Emma started to move to the entrance to grab a jacket, but he pulled her back and into his mouth, taking his time over his kiss as if to say, _the world can wait_._

_She melted into him, more than aware of her boys' heads rising up from their cereal bowls to study their parents momentarily, then to go back to their breakfast as though nothing unusual was occurring. Of course, it wouldn't be unusual for them to see such displays._

"_Good luck, Mom," Henry said when Killian finally released her. And Liam, not to be outdone, gave her a grin as sly and wonderful as any she'd received from his father. _I love you_, _Momma_, his bright blue eyes intimated. He was going to be a lady-killer one day._

====o0I0o====

The final two doors stared at each other in silent testament to the two different lives they represented, neither swinging wide to reveal their secrets just yet, as if offering Emma one over-long moment to collect her thoughts before finally going home. This was it. Emma could only guess the door on the left contained her last memory before she fell through time, and the one on the right… It could harbor just about anything, since she had no memory to go along with the new timeline that might tell her how or _if_ she'd ever left it.

Glancing over her shoulder, the lengthy hallway stretched out behind her, two lifetimes for one life playing out behind each of those doors. Understanding exactly what Killian had sacrificed left her wondering what she had ever done for him. To be loved so completely by another person was almost overwhelming, and Emma knew she was undeserving. How could she possibly repay him? How could she possibly match his gift?

There was no answer. Killian had not only relinquished her and their child at the door of time, but had waited centuries for her birth, traveled back and forth to Neverland to keep his body young, allowed her the time to develop a relationship with Neal so Henry could be born. And he had never known whether or not he might find her again each time he left.

Two timelines for one life…

She once had a conversation with David and Mary Margaret about what it was like to have two sets of memories. David said it was mostly like a dream, neither set more real than the other. Over time his true memories seemed clearer, the fabricated ones serving the purpose of showing him who he didn't want to be. It helped that he knew which was which. In Emma's case, she wasn't sure—she just knew which set she preferred.

Walking through that preferred timeline had shown her one important thing, however. Nearly every major event that had occurred in the original timeline had occurred in the new, with minor detail changes from Killian's involvement. For instance, Neal still returned to Storybrooke with Tamara, but instead of jealousy on Emma's part, she mainly felt relieved he had found happiness just as she had. That relief quickly dissolved into fury when she learned the extent of Tamara's involvement in the abduction of her son, but Emma was forgiving by nature, and didn't blame Neal for something he couldn't have known.

Because of Killian's supply of beans, which they tried to keep as quiet as possible, they left Liam in the care of Belle and Granny, and Leroy of all people, who turned out to be quite good at taking the inquisitive little boy on short hikes in the forest, never too rushed to stop every time Liam bent to examine another rock or bug. Killian, Emma and the Charmings left for Neverland aboard the Jolly Roger, with Gold and Regina in tow to retrieve Henry.

Of course Gold eventually remembered who Killian was, and the argument that ensued had Gold even angrier than ever. But Killian told the truth when he said he had never dallied with Rumple's wife. Since Gold had never known the extent of their involvement, he unwillingly took Killian's sincerity at face value, although he brooded over it, and chose to work a good portion of the rescue on his own. This was quite inconvenient, but favorable as well, since no one overly enjoyed his presence.

Eventually Henry was rescued, Gold and Pan destroyed, and Storybrooke went back to life as usual.

So now that Emma stood before both doors, she knew the town would be similar behind both, but on the right, Henry would be younger, Liam had been born, Killian had two hands and a past he could be proud of, Regina was pregnant with her first child with Robin, Graham had been reunited with his heart while Leroy had reunited with the pink fairy, Ruby and Dr. Whale were dating and enjoying strange outings late at night, and so on, a cascade of happy endings.

With a deep sigh, Emma glanced down at her belly, wrapping her hands underneath the firm roundness and lifting slightly, giving her hips a much needed rest. What she wouldn't give for a shower and a bed for several days. The life Killian had made possible beckoned to her, calling her home as sure as her love for her family. To hold Henry and Liam, to feel her husband's touch on her skin, to invite her dad and her parents and brother over for dinner and just bask in the normalcy of it all—her desires seemed almost like dreams themselves, just within reach of her grasping fingers.

An air of expectancy surrounded her as she looked to the door on the left and awaited its release, the brown wooden hallway cushioning the moment with a thickening of the atmosphere, or maybe it was her own temperature rising in anticipation. Either way, she stepped forward and waited for the door to open on Main Street that fateful morning before her disappearance.

The door inched open at first, then swung wide as though eager to reveal its contents. But instead of hearing the happy sounds of her hometown waking up, an office came into view, Archie's office specifically, and she was surprised to see herself sitting on the couch, wearing exactly what she had worn the day she fell though time, red jacket over a tank top, jeans and her favorite leather boots. Archie leaned back in his well-worn armchair with the same concerned expression she'd come to know and love over the years.

This time the concern was directed at her.

Emma edged forward curiously, her toes bumping into the invisible wall that kept her from interacting with the scene on the other side of it, not having recalled the hour before she fell through time until just that very moment.

_His office smelled of leather and paper, the couch cushion just stable enough to give support but soft enough to give the illusion of being enfolded in comfort. Mary Margaret had suggested the sessions after Emma had asked an innocuous question: Was there an adjustment period when you first got married? It had taken a couple of sessions already, her mouth fumbling over the words that would bring her to a resolution as quickly as possible._

_Archie's unassuming presence encouraged her to speak, despite her natural reticence involving personal matters. Once the words began to flow, they continued flowing, drawing from a pool of emotion and confusion that longed to be drained._

_She and Killian had been married about a year and a half, and their life was wonderful really, a tribute to how much a reformed pirate and a lost girl could really change. But… To be honest, she had moments of doubt and feeling trapped, her hands pulling at her throat as though she wore a turtleneck fit for a child. It was most likely the remnants of past relationships, and she wanted to be free of all that muck that reared its ugly head in moments of frustration, or when she least expected it, like when he did something particularly thoughtful and her heart immediately questioned his sincerity. Killian was always sincere, but her past partners hadn't been, leaving a residue of mistrust._

_Killian also came to their relationship with baggage of his own. Sometimes, when he was hurting over something, he would push her away, hiding his pain behind snide comments and indifference. Those were the days he reached for the rum and brooded alone on his ship._

_The first session had revealed the root cause of her occasional turmoil: fear. In the second session, Archie had quite cleverly helped her discover that her fear was born out of finally surrendering her whole heart to another person. Surrender was different from love. It implied a level of trust Emma had never had occasion to experience in her life._

_If she wanted to heal, she had to let go of the past and the illusion of control. It wasn't as if she could stop the world and live in a bubble. She had to focus on the present and hope the future would be just as blessed, and if it wasn't, well, she had proven time and again that she could handle it._

_It wasn't as if the information was groundbreaking or anything, but seeing that her fear was born out of control helped her relinquish some of it, and when she was feeling suffocated, she could take a few deep breaths and talk herself down._

The memory of those first couple of sessions and the reasons behind them brought a smile to Emma's face as she watched from the doorway, the therapist-client pair exchanging pleasantries and discussing some of the effects from her previous revelations. So much had occurred since that last session in Archie's office. She had been on an adventure beyond imagination and fallen in love with her husband all over again—more than once if she included the alternate timeline.

"We've established that you love Killian enough to have surrendered your heart..." Archie's sudden seriousness broke through Emma's reverie, and she focused her attention on the small room and the conversation.

"…That your fear stems from recognizing you're happy and can't control outside events that might affect that happiness. So I have a question for you."

Emma's other self gazed at Archie with interest, waiting for him to continue.

"If you could do one thing for your husband, one thing that would demonstrate your love for him more than anything, what would it be?" he asked.

As other-Emma answered the question without hesitation, Emma felt her own lips simultaneously mouth the words, "I would do anything to take away his regret, so he might know how wonderful he really is, who I see every time I look at him."

Archie looked at her strangely, as though he had been expecting her to say something like, _Pick up his dirty socks every day without complaint._

And then something changed in Archie's face, his eyes holding a twinkle Emma had never noticed before in the kind therapist. Other-Emma just waited as if she thought Archie might have a solution for such a tall order.

"And if that were possible, if Killian truly had no regrets, do you think you would love him as much? It's entirely plausible that his experiences have shaped him into the man you love," Archie challenged.

The question had thrown her other self off-guard, and her self-assurance faltered for a split-second. She had never carried the thought any further than the immediate consequence of Killian being free of his past. "I don't know, but I'd sure as hell try," other-Emma declared with a conviction that seemed to reverberate throughout the air.

"Then perhaps we should find out," Archie murmured.

Emma inhaled sharply from the doorway as she caught Archie's comment, her other-self looking bemused with the implications of Archie's line of questioning and having missed the comment altogether.

"What was that?" other-Emma asked, pulled from her thoughts.

Archie settled back in his chair, waving away her question, that amused glimmer back in his gray eyes. "Then perhaps you can do that for him, Emma. Try and help him live without regret. Love him the way he needs to be loved, and the past will no longer hold the same power it once did."

"Thanks, Archie, I'll think about it," her other self said, standing up to shake his hand with a gentle smile of thanks. But before she reached the door to Archie's office, Emma thought she saw her other self sniff deeply and draw her brows together in question, shaking it off before exiting the office.

It was then that Emma distinctly remembered catching a whiff of pipe tobacco from a freshly lit pipe. The hallway door hadn't closed even though her other-self was gone, and so when Emma turned her attention back to the still-seated therapist, she saw him blowing smoke rings at the ceiling in lazy satisfaction. Pongo slinked into the room and transformed into the white fox as she padded across the floor, stopping at Archie's chair and lifting her face for a scratch under the chin. Archie obliged, his own shape shifting until Emma was staring slack-jawed into the face of Mac.

"Yes, Emma Jones," he said to no one in particular, "Perhaps you think about that!" Mac's booming laughter shot out of his mouth in an outburst of hilarity, he the only one in on the joke.

The door began to close on Mac and the fox, but just before it did, Mac turned his head in Emma's direction, and holding her eyes, blew a smoke ring at her. "We aren't given these kinds of chances arbitrarily, Mrs. Jones."

The white puff floated across the room in an ever-widening circle, framing Mac's exuberant face with its fuzzy edges, while Emma's mind began to whirl with possibilities.

The door shut firmly and Emma turned away, months of turmoil becoming clear through Mac's question: _Do you think you could love Killian Jones if he didn't have his regrets?_

Her entire journey back in time had been to show her that she most certainly could love him, and did, regardless of the experiences that shaped him. All those months ago, Mac had implied that Killian in the past was different from Killian in the future, a conversation that had thrown Emma into a tailspin of emotion and confusion. And yet it had all been a ruse to ferret out her true feelings for the one man she had always loved, in any time.

====o0I0o====

One door left. One door that held one final memory. Emma could only hope that whatever it was, it would hold the key to her returning to the alternate timeline, since she didn't think she could live without Liam or Jamison in her life.

The door swung open quietly, just like all the others before it, and Emma stepped to the threshold, nearly stumbling in surprise when she saw her other self sitting on the couch in Archie's office, looking exactly the same as she had in the corresponding memory. She appeared to have only just arrived, taking a sip of a still-steaming cup of coffee while she made small talk with the town's resident psychiatrist.

It was several moments before Emma recognized the scene as her yearly evaluation and the reason she had to leave her apartment before the boys left for school. She and Regina had set up the sessions as a way to ensure the mental health of Storybrooke's first responders. The program had been a success, mitigating the stress of the complications that arose in a town that had magic amidst a world that did not.

"Well, Emma, I know this is your yearly evaluation, not that you appear to need it," Archie began, "but I do know from experience that looks can be deceiving. So tell me, how is everything?" Archie's unobtrusive concern sat plainly on his face, reminding her that he wasn't only a doctor, but a friend as well.

"Isn't that the truth?" other-Emma chuckled, "But everything has been really good lately." She took another sip of coffee, her eyes losing focus for a second, and a memory of Killian's mouth against her collar bone brushed across Emma's skin in sharp definitude as she experienced what her other self was thinking, once again in the throes of the odd sensation of observing and experiencing the memory simultaneously, as though she were in two places at once.

"Tell me about work," Archie said.

Emma's other-self gave a summary of the kinds of cases she, Graham and David had been working lately. And as often happens with psychiatrists, once she had begun talking, Archie was able to steer the conversation in the direction he really desired, her personal life, evident by the tiny smile on his lips that suggested pride in his manipulations, her other self completely unaware.

Emma listened to the contentment in her own voice as her other self shared what it was like to live out the life she had dreamed of since she was a little girl, with the man she'd idolized for as long. Emma's own mind began to wander, her heart near to bursting with the desire to get back to that life.

"Well, there is one thing," other-Emma said thoughtfully, drawing Emma from her pleasant recollections by the break in the rolling sound of the simple conversation, her ears noting the sudden seriousness of the comment that seemed to stall the air in the room.

Archie raised his brows as if he expected it, concerned and gentle as usual, and other-Emma gave a tentative smile.

"We've talked before about the story," she began.

Archie's face suddenly seemed to contradict itself, his mouth looking grave, but his eyes… His eyes were gleaming and gray, the unmistakable eyes of Mac. Emma groaned inwardly. Her other self wouldn't have known she was staring into the face of a shape-shifter, a seer who was so much more than just another fortune teller.

Emma had a feeling she knew what her other self was going to ask, given her fascination with the other timeline. One of the doors had opened on her and Killian watching documentaries about time travel and space anomalies, she helping Killian try to figure out what happened to the other Emma who was sent back through the door, especially since she was carrying his child—which explained his occasional looks of sadness most often occurring when she was pregnant with Liam.

"Well, it's just that we can't figure it out. And I want to know what happens to her baby, er… my baby," other-Emma fumbled.

Emma had the sudden urge to shout into the room, "I'm right here!" and placing a hand on her belly, "We're right here!" But Emma knew they wouldn't hear her. Memories didn't work that way. Well, except for Mac, but Mac seemed to come and go as he liked, and Emma had learned to accept it.

Archie inclined his head slightly, considering. "It could be as simple as having another. Have you thought of that?"

"Sure, but Killian isn't convinced. And the way he tells the story to the kids, bits and pieces of it before their bedtimes..." Emma watched her other-self blush, and the memory of Killian whispering into her mouth the most delicious parts of their journey flooded her mind, her body tightening in pleasant response.

Archie quietly waited for her to continue, his brows arched as though he knew exactly what she was thinking.

"I know I have no right to complain, but sometimes... sometimes I wish I were the one carrying the child he remembers so clearly. I hate to see him sad over a memory I had nothing to do with," other-Emma blurted, her eyes dropping to her upturned palms as they sat on her thighs.

Archie smiled encouragingly. "There's no need to be embarrassed, lass. Your reaction is perfectly understandable."

She looked up and smiled, relief relaxing her features. "Then you don't think I'm crazy, or worse, ungrateful?"

"Not at all," he added. "I would think it was quite normal to be jealous of Mr. Jones." The gray eyes sparked with mischief and Emma knew Mac well enough to know he was about to bait his captive audience. She wished she could tell herself to calm down and not take it personally, but other-Emma was already sitting up straighter, shoulders tensing.

"Jealous? Is that what you think I am?" she asked, affronted by Archie's suggestion and surprised he would risk such an unwarranted judgment.

"It matters not. Your husband claims to have experienced an adventure with another version of you, a glorious adventure of which you have no recollection, suggesting that perhaps he even experienced it with another woman he only thought was you. I can imagine the questions you must have." Archie's eyes drilled forward with a particular intrigue, challenging her to answer the charge.

Other-Emma inhaled sharply, not missing the accusations aimed at Killian and her. "Then you think we're wasting our time trying to understand what happened to her. That she's just a part of his past he needs to let go of?" she said with a bare hint of disdain.

"Let me ask you, Mrs. Jones…" Archie's Northern Maine accent degenerated into something more Scottish-sounding on her name, but other-Emma was still too flustered to pay attention. "What would happen if she were to return to your time? What would you do if a pregnant woman from your husband's past were to appear on your proverbial door step, claiming a love beyond imagination? Are you so confident in your marriage that you don't think he might have some kind of attraction for her? That he might not eventually leave you for her?"

"Wait, no. That's not it, she's me. Even Dad… Jamison, says so," other-Emma argued.

"So everyone claims. But the question still stands," he stated.

Emma watched her other self sink into the couch cushions, some of her bravado being replaced with insecurity. Mac/Archie had poked through other-Emma's bubble of perfection with a question that had her flummoxed as she considered all her years with Killian, together and apart. Emma felt only sympathy for her other self, having been in a similar position long ago on an ornate settee in Mac's parlor.

"I—I don't know," she said dejectedly.

"Perhaps I can ask one more question that might make this easier?" Archie offered.

Other-Emma looked up from her hands with a kind of dread that said she wasn't sure she wanted to hear anything else from her therapist.

"This is your life, your destiny." He paused, lightly tapping his fingers on the ends of the arms of his chair. "So what is it you believe?" His lips twitched with amused delight, and other-Emma stared at him blankly, not understanding what he could possibly be so happy about.

"What do you want to be true, Mrs. Jones?" he reiterated more quietly this time, gray eyes intensifying as they focused on his quarry.

"I want… I want the adventure story to be true. But I want it to be me," she admitted, looking up at Archie with longing, wishing there was a chance, but unable to believe in the possibility.

"Ah, yes. There it is."

"So what now?"

Archie shrugged. "So what now?"

"I mean, what do I do with this information? What does it gain me?"

"All it does, lass, is give you something to either hold onto or let go of as you see fit."

"And that's it?"

"That's it. No more, no less. Wishing things were different doesn't make them different." He pulled a pipe out of his pocket, holding it in one hand while he regarded her with a bright smile. "So let me ask you, who decides what we see?"

Emma's other self didn't lose her confused expression, but it became the backdrop for an increasing frustration. "What kind of question is that? One of those rhetorical ones that try to make the one asking it appear smart?"

"Touché, Mrs. Jones. But you'll know the answer to that question before you go home today, as well as the answer to your questions about Killian's other woman."

Other-Emma humphed at the other woman comment, but she let it go. "How can you possibly know that?"

"My conscience tells me so," he quipped with a quick raising and lowering of his brows, his face gentling a bit as though he understood he had almost pushed her too far. "You're smart, Emma Jones. Think."

"Yeah, well thanks, Archie, I guess." She glanced at her watch, noted the time and stood up.

"Good bye, Mrs. Jones."

She nodded and left the room, not even realizing a true therapist would loathe ending a session with his client angry and agitated, especially in an evaluation such as this. "Until we meet again," Archie murmured.

Emma's own door was still open, the same as before, and she watched Archie fill his pipe from the tobacco pouch in his pocket, tamping it down to his satisfaction. Striking a match, he lit it and puffed, sighing loudly when the smoke began to fill the room.

Finally looking up at her as she stood behind the handle-less door, his eyes once again held her gaze, commanding all her attention while from her periphery she watched his body dissolve into Mac's shape. His animated eyes were the only body part to remain the same.

Behind a large puff of smoke, he beckoned her closer with a wave of his hand.

Countless times she had tried to step forward onto a scene as her emotions became unbearable, when she thought she would burst from being held back from an embrace or a reunion, and each time her foot or hand would hit the invisible barrier that kept her from entering. She lifted her foot with the same trepidation, expecting to strike that same barrier. But nothing held her back, and her foot fell into Archie's office, silent on the carpet.

"Come in, lass." Mac reached over to pat the couch next to him, the exact spot her other self had just vacated.

"A…Are you s-sure?" Emma's voice sounded strained, the words catching on her dry lips after hours of quiet observation.

"It's quite lovely to see you again, Emma Jones. Here." She sat down on the couch while he handed her a bottle of water, although she couldn't have said where it had come from. Sitting felt heavenly, a warm relief spreading throughout her lower body as her muscles released their tension. She had been standing for a very long time.

"What about… her… Emma in this timeline?" Her head swiveled around the room in dread that her other self could decide she had forgotten something and walk into the room any second.

"Oh, not to worry, she's walking to Granny's as we speak. She'll stop to talk with Regina about something and then Graham will catch up to her, and then she'll be on her way again."

"Ok…" Emma drawled out, not quite following.

"And then she'll fall through time as she passes down Main Street, exactly as you did in the other timeline," he said with an incline of his head that told her she should have guessed that for herself. "So we have a few minutes."

"I see. So I fell through because I needed to know if I could love Killian without regret. And she falls through because she wanted to know what it was like to live out Killian's adventure." Emma was surprised at how coherent her words sounded, despite her roiling emotions.

"Aye. Although you are still speaking of her as though she's separate from you. She's not," Mac stated.

"Then what happens now?"

"You step into her place," he said, as though he couldn't fathom why she had any questions at all.

"But I'm… pregnant," Emma said, stating the obvious as though Mac was an idiot for not having noticed.

"So you are. I'm sure Mr. Jones will be quite chuffed to see you two after all this time." He took another drag on his pipe, pursing his lips as he exhaled.

His manner was entirely too casual for the conversation, and while his demeanor helped calm Emma's anxiety over how her return was supposed to work out, it did nothing to answer the thousands of questions crowding her mind.

"So just to make sure, I fell through time in both timelines?" she clarified.

"Yes, of course," he said. "How else did you think this was going to work?"

"But which one is true? Which timeline really happened and which one didn't?" Emma pressed, needing to fully understand what had occurred.

"Mrs. Jones, this isn't like the residents of Storybrooke with two sets of memories. Your case is… special. Both timelines occurred for you. And you will remember both, just as Killian still remembers both of his."

"But what about everything being different in this timeline? What about Graham being alive and Liam being born? What about…" she trailed off, unsure of what else to include.

"Destiny, lass. Destiny. Events in both timelines brought you to the same place: the place where you wanted to change something. So who decides, Mrs. Jones? Who decides what you see?" he asked, reiterating the question he'd asked her all those months before when she sat in the same spot.

Emma sank back against the couch, resting her head back with a sigh as she thought about Mac's question. "I really don't know. You? Me?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it's the one who orchestrated a collection of experiences that would best help you realize your destiny, in both timelines."

"You mean that wasn't you?"

"Oh no, I don't have that kind of power. But think about those experiences for a minute. It was you who saw Mr. Jones's pain when no one else did. The pain of his regret in the original timeline, and the pain of wondering what happened to his child in the alternate timeline."

He pointed his pipe in her direction, bouncing it to punctuate his words.

"You were the savior; you always have been. You were the one who made the choice to sacrifice yourself so Killian could live without regret, and in turn he sacrificed himself for your happiness, and that began a cascade of good intentions that affected many former residents of the Enchanted Forest, as well as countless others like Elizabeth Jamison, who remained a widow in the other timeline.

"It was you, lass." He spoke more quietly now, still gesturing with his pipe. "You who were given the opportunity. You who took it." He dropped his hand to his lap and sighed. "The biggest challenge in life is making use of those opportunities when they arise. And because you did..." He paused, as if waiting for her to finish his thought when she fully comprehended his words.

"Everyone has their happy ending," she finished. "Well, maybe not everyone."

"No, not everyone," he agreed.

"Wha… How…" Her words were failing her as she realized the circle had been completed, the imperfection in the Balgienit's woven cloth of time finally repaired.

"Mrs. Jones, it was a gift. An exclusive one that included you and many others, but not everyone. And neither you nor I get to determine who benefits from it. I might get to dabble here and there in altering perceptions, but that's as far as my role goes."

"So you really don't know who's in control of time," she said skeptically.

"I have my suspicions, lass." He stood up and switched his pipe to his other hand, a clear indication that the discussion was closed. "And now, dear Mrs. Jones, it appears our time is up."

She slowly followed suit. She still had questions of course, but now nothing seemed as important as getting back to Killian and her boys. "Thanks, Mac."

The twinkle came back to his eye. "You say that as though you aren't sure you want to thank me."

"I'm not sure. I was nearly killed, more than once!"

"Well, maybe," he conceded, "but you weren't killed and now you can go home."

"Home." Her mind paused in its chaos, suddenly quiet with the simple four-letter word. "Will he be there?" She didn't have to clarify who she meant.

Mac nodded, his smile reaching all corners of his face, obviously loving a happy ending. "And if you hurry now, you can just catch him before he leaves for the day."

Smiling, Emma Jones took his hand and said thank you, sincerely this time, his booming laugh chasing her as she left the office.

====o0I0o====

Emma raced up the stairs to their apartment, her pregnant belly tightening with the exercise. She wasn't sure when it had happened, maybe when she stepped into Archie's office from the hallway of time, or maybe as her steps had flown down the street, never so grateful in her life that she hadn't run across anyone she knew, since she didn't want to explain her pregnancy to anyone until _he_ knew about it. But whenever it had happened, Emma fully understood that although both timelines had occurred, she had somehow merged with the preferred one. Emma Jamison Jones had fallen through time, lived out an adventure she had dreamed of for years, stepped into the door of time and learned exactly what her life would have been without the intervention of Killian Jones.

Her breath came in short gasps, her lungs no longer able to fill completely with her child pressing into them. She needed to slow down, but couldn't, and kept rushing ahead until she turned the corner to her hallway, coming to an abrupt halt when she saw Killian emerge from their apartment.

There was no breath to greet him, and even if there had been, she could only stare at his profile as he locked the door with one hand, holding his coffee in the other. Surprised delight crossed his features when he turned away from the door and saw her standing there.

"Ah, love, did you forget something?" He turned back to the door, almost slowly, his brow crinkling, "I could open it for..." he began, in the process of finishing his thought before he turned back to her again, blue eyes sweeping over her travel-stained leather vest, widening as they fell on the open buttons at the base, her shirted belly straining through the leather.

His eyes blinked a couple of times and his throat sounded tight. "It's… ah… been a long time since I've seen you in that," he said, an odd expression crossing his face. He stepped forward, as though to close the distance, but paused, hands dropping to his sides, his coffee tilting precariously, forgotten.

"I… I just got back," she said lamely.

"I can see that," he said quietly, watching her closely as if she might fade into thin air. "What about…" he lifted his hand into the air, pointing vaguely in the direction of Archie's office, the gesture indicating his concern about her other self, the Emma he'd been living this timeline with. Indecision coupled with the confusion of reconciling two versions of his wife filed across his features in tandem. She could relate to his difficulty—it was the same one she'd had for a good portion of their journey to get to the door of time.

"She's me," Emma stated, the two words sounding inadequate in the face of all the questions he must have.

"She's…"

"Me." Although she had finally caught her breath, her heart hadn't slowed its trip-hammering at being so close to him, and she was afraid to throw herself into his arms judging by his shocked expression and cloistered body language. He needed to understand what was happening first.

"Right."

Emma lifted a hand toward the door behind him. "Can we... go inside?"

He still looked as though he were afraid she was a ghost, and stepped away from her when she came closer, fumbling with the keys while he unlocked the door.

The hallway seemed unnaturally quiet, the tinkling keys echoing off the walls and amplifying her discomfort as she scrabbled to figure out what to tell him first. The door lock finally gave, and he moved aside again under the ruse of letting her enter first, but she recognized uneasiness when she saw it, especially coming from him.

The first thing she noticed was the smell, the smell of her family, her furniture, her life before... She inhaled deeply, the simple act of taking a breath bringing tears to her eyes as it truly sunk in that she was home. Her eyes slowly scanned the room she'd left months ago, the exact spot where Killian had kissed her goodbye, her boys' cereal bowls still sitting on the table, everything as she'd left it the morning she went for her evaluation. Which for him was just over an hour ago.

"Ah, can I get you anything, lass?" he asked, slowly closing the door behind him and sounding as though she were the last person he wanted to see.

"I hate this," she answered instead, her heart breaking over his divided loyalty to her, unable to understand she was the same Emma he had woken next to that morning.

He looked startled, lifting a hand to scratch behind his ear, not quite meeting her gaze. "Aye. I'm not quite sure..."

"What you're supposed to think right now?" she finished for him.

"Something like that."

Emma walked into the kitchen and pulled down a glass, Killian's eyes following her as though she were a stranger in his house, not yet having removed his jacket to get comfortable. Filling her glass with water, she drank thirstily, the water bottle Mac had given her not having been nearly enough.

"Are you okay?" she asked, setting the glass on the counter, suddenly feeling very tired and unequal to the task of explaining everything.

"As much as can be expected when one sees a ghost." He finally shrugged out of his jacket, not taking his eyes off her while he draped it over a dining chair and ambled over to the kitchen bar. "So are you going to enlighten me on how all this works out, or do I get to grin and bear the fact that the woman I love just left my presence, and the woman I left 300 years previous claims to have returned in her place?" He sounded slightly annoyed, not that she could blame him.

Emma walked around the counter to his side, taking a stool and perching wearily on the edge of it. "You know I left this morning for my evaluation at Archie's." His head nodded slowly, as though he wondered how she could possibly know that. "I talked to him about the story." Killian drew his brows together, listening intently.

"It came out that I didn't want you to have to continue to live with the question of what happened to your child. And..."

"And..." he prompted, although she could see the doubt marked in every line of his body.

"I wanted to live out the _story _with you."

His brows shot up again. "I had no idea you felt that way."

"Well, how could I not?" she answered testily. "Anyway, when I met with Archie... Archie is Mac by the way, and he asked these strange questions..." She sighed loudly, aggravated with herself. "This is coming out a jumbled mess."

She started over, noting that he didn't change his position, just continued standing there, blue eyes intent. "You sent me through the door of time 300 years ago and didn't drink the memory potion..." He nodded. "Leaving you the freedom to interact with my life." He nodded again, eyes narrowing slightly. "I remember it all, Killian. Every visit when I was a kid, growing up with Mom and Dad—Elizabeth and Jamison—falling in love with you before I was old enough to be in love. Our wedding, our boys, everything."

His mouth slowly dropped as she spoke, his body sinking into the nearest stool.

"It was only hours ago for me that I left you at the door of time. But the door wasn't just a quick trip back, Killian. It was a hall of memories. I-I saw the details of both my timelines. The last door was my evaluation with Archie this morning. And when the non-pregnant me left the office, about to fall through time..."

"You stepped into her place," he finished, and scrubbed a hand over his face, still looking as though he couldn't believe it was possible. But the gentling of his features told her he really wanted it to be.

"Yeah. Are you... are you okay with that?" she ventured.

It was as if a thousand emotions were fighting for supremacy over his face, and an idea occurred to Emma, one that would prove he had no reason to feel a divided loyalty. "I fell through time a couple of minutes ago," she said, putting her feet to the floor and standing in front of him, "and I've already met you, already traveled through months of hellish experiences without any recollection of the story that prompted the trip," she turned around, "all while wondering how I could tread as lightly as possible not to alter my blissful future." She lowered the waistband of her leather pants, his sharp intake of breath indicating he saw the tattoo of his ship, _An Age Cannot Sate Love_ inscribed across her lower back. "I've already fallen in love with you, despite all efforts to maintain the timeline…" His hands grasped her hips and slowly spun her to face him, his features filled with wonder.

"Already allowed me to sire our child…" he continued, his grin turning cheeky, and he stretched out a hand, brushing her cheek.

As soon as his fingers contacted her skin, a bloom of energy released, and his blue eyes widened, mouth opening and closing a couple of times in astonishment.

"What happened?" she asked, almost alarmed.

"Bloody hell, Swan! I remember now. You wanted to get back to your husband and two children, Liam and Henry; I remember remarking on the peculiarity of your son sharing my brother's name. I remember your telling me about your two fathers. I never realized the Henry you spoke of was in reality Jamison. All this time. How could I have not known?"

"My guess is because it hadn't happened yet," she stated, the sudden wonder of the completed timeline causing her to search her own memory for the changes. And sure enough, they were there.

His hands cupped her cheeks, shaking slightly. "Gods, you're real! You're really here!" He stood, pulling her into his arms, pressing his face against her hair. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again." Leaning back a little, he stretched his fingers over her belly, as if he could hold the entire expanse in one hand. "Or you," he whispered to their baby.

"Killian, I know why I was sent back, in the original timeline. I understand everything now."

He looked up from his open hand, surprised. "Do you, love?"

She nodded, throat tight at the feel of him, the smell of his freshly showered skin reminding her of a memory she'd relived several minutes ago, of a morning approximately seven months ago.

"In the original timeline, I went to see Archie for marriage counseling."

He looked at her closely. "I didn't realize you thought we needed it," he said, uncertainty passing briefly over his features.

"Our pasts were still haunting us occasionally, and Mary Margaret suggested I speak to Archie. Anyway, when I saw the memory a few minutes ago, what I was trying to say was Archie turned into Mac. And Pongo…"

"Let me guess, is Isobel," he finished. "Was Mac only impersonating Archie? Is Archie still... Archie?" He looked confused, his brow wrinkling and eyes out of focus with distraction.

"I think it was a one time thing," Emma said, knowing the words would get his attention like no other. "Doesn't matter. Anyway, when Archie—I mean Mac—asked me what one thing I would do for you above all others, I said…"

"Oh, love," he interrupted, face going slack with comprehension, "You wanted me to live without the stain of my past, is that it?"

She nodded, no longer surprised he could complete her sentences. They were so much a part of each other now, there was no other explanation.

He grabbed her again, and this time he kissed her, gentling his mouth over hers as though she were a fine rum to be savored. "I couldn't have guessed. All this time," he whispered against her mouth, breathing her in. "Gods, after all this time, Swan…"

"Hmmm?" she mumbled, completely lost to the overwhelming feelings of desire and love she had always had for this man.

"You could use a shower." He grinned and ducked back before she could push him back, drawing her own grin in the process.

"Tell me about it, captain." She reluctantly left the circle of his arms, walking down the hall to their bathroom, glancing over her shoulder to find him standing in the same place, transfixed, eyes following her as though unable to believe she was really home. "Can I talk you into not going into work today?" she called back.

"That wouldn't require any special skill, Swan," he hollered while divesting himself of his clothing.

Her vest was already off, her no-longer white shirt slipping off her shoulders. "What are you doing? You're already clean."

"I'm basking in the spoils of the adventure, love." He smirked, kicking out of his jeans and and abandoning them, moving with the speed of a man who's been denied a lot longer than he had in actuality.

They stepped into the shower together, Killian taking his time scrubbing every inch of her body with his spicy-smelling body wash, applying special care over her belly, all the while speaking sweet nothings to her and their child.

====o0I0o====

"Go on, open it," Killian urged a couple hours later, the feel of her soft curves still lingering in his hands. It had taken that long to reacquaint himself with every change in her beautiful body, and he still felt giddy with having been given the one gift he had very nearly given up hope of receiving.

They had just come from the kitchen, where he'd fixed her a large omelet with a tall glass of milk, and his Swan was now seated on the edge of their bed, looking glorious, if a bit fatigued, in a pair of his soft flannel trousers and a tank top that left the bottom three inches of her exquisite belly exposed.

"It's not my birthday," she said skeptically, the hint of a smile lighting her green eyes.

"I know, Swan, but I swear you'll approve," he expressed eagerly, sitting next to her and very nearly opening the box for her.

"Okay…" She lifted the lid, set it aside, and cried out in delighted surprise. "Killian! How did you…"

She unfolded a brand new version of her red jacket, the exact make of the one she always wore, shaking it out and holding it against her chest. Her eyes began to fill with tears as she clutched it to her chest, looking up at him in adoration.

"It was shredded in the fairies' defense lines, remember?" he offered, edging closer, running a hand over her leg, still in awe that he truly had everything he could have ever wanted.

"How could I forget? But how did you know? In this timeline? I mean, if I were returning to the other one…"

"I could only hope you would come home to me in this timeline the same way I sent you away at the door. And you did."

"I did," she agreed, and Killian was never so grateful for Mac's antics and for whatever providential design had returned his family to him. Although he may never understand the science behind their experience—and he had become quite an expert in particle physics—he found it didn't signify, and he captured her face between his hands and kissed her again, reveling in the magic and wonder of true love.

====o0I0o====

Two months later, Killian and Emma welcomed their daughter, Ellen Elizabeth Jones, named after Jamison's wife and Mrs. Fritz, a tribute to the amazing women who could claim the kind of selflessness it takes to raise children not their own.

Life continued as before, the simple ups and downs of every day lending excitement through the adventure of life. On their tenth anniversary, they had their rings engraved to match their tattoos, his ring with "An age cannot sate love", hers with "Neither can eternity extinguish it." They would welcome two more children before Emma declared herself officially "done", Margaret Caitlyn Jones and Iona Abigail Jones.

With five high-spirited children and one gorgeous wife, Killian decided his family had most definitely landed all together in that tiny bottle, floating blissfully on the ocean of life.

====o0I0o====

_Our universe unfailingly adheres to laws at work in and around us. Time is one such system that always marches forward at the same pace, regardless of our experience of it or the many attempts to thwart its passage or lessen its impact on our lives. _

_Our destiny is entangled in the experience of time, and not something we can outrun. Who we are alters slightly as we maneuver through experiences, but who we are meant to be never wavers, and always finds a way to manifest itself. _

_Humankind is fascinated with the concepts of redemption and happy endings, miracles embodying a unifying factor in each. _

_And what is true love if not a miracle in and of itself, making redemption possible amidst the impossible._

* * *

**Thank you all so much for taking this yearlong journey with me! Your support and encouragement make writing fanfiction worth every second. Please show your love to the writers nominated for the CS awards on tumblr—I'd love to know about your beginnings—and review often (it's the crack we live on!) Cheers! ~DD**


	39. Update

Hi guys! Just a quick note to thank you for your support and appreciation in the wake of this story. I love hearing from you still-you keep true love alive!

So I had to post a note about the wonderful graphic design created by 4getfulimaginator (burntbrokensoul on Tumblr). I think she has perfectly captured the eternal element of true love, which as you know is the overriding theme of this story. Thank you so much for sharing your time and talent, Talia!

And may I just give another shout-out to all the fabulous writers and graphic designers out there who share their hard work with us for no other reason than to spread the joy of doing what they love. You all are amazing, and fanfiction (and it's off-shoots) wouldn't exist without you. As for the negative press out there, don't let it get you down!

Persevero! ~DD

P.S. I have no idea how to actually link the graphic into this post. If anyone does, please let me know. As it is, you'd have to find it through tumblr-either Talia's or mine, dancingdoula44.


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